


The Art of Noticing

by Huggywolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Character Death, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Lydia is a Good Friend, M/M, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Bad Friend, Slow Burn, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-04-30 07:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14491725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggywolf/pseuds/Huggywolf
Summary: Some things cannot be shaken off so easily. They change you, alter you at the very core of your being.Stiles' pleas had gone unanswered.He was unheard.He was untouched.He was unseen.He was invisible.He caught the reflection of his blurry figure on the polished stone and something shifted in him.////Tags will be periodically updated. Please, check out the notes before reading. Thank you :) ///





	1. Chapter 1

“Walk it off, buddy,” his father used to say soothingly, when Stiles came home with scraped knees and tears in his eyes. He was a scrawny kid with delicate features, big doe like eyes and upturned nose. His mother used to jokingly say he would have looked more like a changeling than a human child, if not for his lack of coordination. 

And Stiles always nodded at his dad’s words, while sniffling a little. He could be courageous and tough like his father for a while. They both knew that when they returned home, his mum would give him and extra cookie, the one with chocolate chips in it, and kiss his knees better. She used to do it every time when he got hurt. Until she couldn’t. 

When he stood next to his father, his eight-year old self clad in black clothes that made him itchy, Stiles came to a startling realization. He wasn’t alone crying his eyes out when his mum was put in the ground. Looking up, he saw his dad’s silent tears and shaking hands and in that moment he knew, that some things were harder to walk off than other. He reached out, took one of the shaking hands in his own and squeezed. That earned him a shaky, small upturn of the lips and a squeeze in return. 

>>>>>>>>>

“Get up, Billinski! Don’t be such a wallflower!” 

Stiles has never understood how the man could shout with all his might so often without actually losing his voice. It was as fascinating as it was disconcerting. “Easier said than done, Coach,” he grumbled at eccentric teacher, but still tried to get his legs to cooperate. The star players of the team stood close by, obviously amused. Jackson, the asshole who knocked him to the ground, was actually smirking at him while he uttered something under his breath to others, which was followed by loud snickering.

Stiles rolled his eyes and ignored it. Lacrosse was a tough sport and some injuries were to be expected. Much more so, when taking Stiles’ clumsiness and his assholes of the team mates into consideration. But he tried. If not for the sport itself, then for his best friend, Scott.

Their epic friendship begun on the playground, when they were four. He didn’t remember the exact moment, but it was now an established fact, that they had kind of adopted each other somewhere between building a sandcastle and playing superheroes. Now, he was his best friend in the entire world. His only friend. 

Which was the reason why Stiles was kind of surprised, still laying on the grass, when Scott hadn’t come to check on him and helped him up, like he had always done. Looking around, Stiles saw him standing in a group of people Stiles didn’t recognize, uncharacteristic frown on his face. And it was weird. It was SO weird, because Scott didn’t know any of them. He would tell Stiles about them immediately, such a blabbermouth was his best friend was. And it almost seemed as if they were arguing about something. Stiles narrowed his eyes and marched to them, his protective streak flaring up. 

He positioned himself right next to Scott, their shoulders brushing together. 

“Hey, guys. What’s up?” he went for casual tone but his smile was strained. 

The quiet that followed may have been suspicious, but it was the way his best friend leaned away from him that told Stiles, that something was seriously wrong. 

“Nothing much. Just chatting with your buddy here,” drawled one of the guys, even though he didn’t even glanced at Stiles, “think about what I said, Scott. We could help you.”

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows as he watched his friend nod and clench his jaw. Probably not expecting more, the weird strangers left rather quickly. 

“Dude, what was that?” 

“Nothing Stiles. They were… it was…,” Scott stuttered looking pitifully desperate. But then he frowned again suddenly for a few seconds and to Stiles’ utter surprise, his face closed off. “Just… let it go.”

With that he whirled around and made his way to the boys’ locker room, leaving shocked Stiles behind. 

“What the hell,” he muttered and jogged after him, his head reeling with the unexpected situation. It wasn’t that it was the first time Scott did something weird. Stiles had noticed the changes that occurred this past few weeks. Like Scott’s utter unwillingness to spend more time with him than absolutely necessary. But he wrote it off as sulking. And after the disaster, that was that one fateful Tuesday night, he had kind of thought he deserved it. 

They planned to get shit drunk in the little clearing in the woods they frequented quite regularly. Really, it was a late celebration of Stiles turning eighteen that month and he was really looking forward it. Scott had not been very sure about the alcohol part, but he was Stiles' bro and eventually, he had been excited as well about losing up a little bit.

And yes, it hadn’t been the biggest party, but Stiles grew up from his infatuation with popular crowd. Of course, it had been just their luck to be spotted entering the woods in the middle of the night by one of dad’s deputies. As a son of the sheriff, he was a well-known face to all of them. In a rash decision, he had shoved the bottle into Scott’s hands and told him to run for it. Stiles had wanted to hold them off. 

It was only for the leniency of the deputy, Parrish was the best, that the son of the sheriff ended up home and not at the station. Stiles now owed him big time.  
He messaged Scott to let him know that and invite him over to play videogames. But no answer came. The next day Scott told him he had been wandering in the woods for hours with no reception, and what’s more, that he lost his very expensive inhaler. Stiles knew Melissa, Scott’s mother, could not easily afford another, not with her nurse salary. Feeling guilty Stiles suggested they could go look for it, even though the chances of finding it was very small, but Scott only glowered at him and walked away without uttering another word. 

So yes, Stiles deserved a cold shoulder. But this was completely different than any other time they were mad at each other. They usually pouted a little, grumbled a little, but at the end of the day, they were brothers in everything but genes and names. 

And that’s why Stiles was starting to feel kind of desperate. He quickly showered in the locker room, stealing worried glances at the other boy and waited until they were in the parking lot, making their way to Scott’s bike and Stiles’ blue jeep to ask in a low voice, indicating he was being serious: “Scotty, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Really? Because the way I see it, you have been ignoring me for some time now.”

“I don’t know, what you’re talking about,” Scott retorted with another blank look sent his way. 

“Don’t bullshit me, Scott! You’ve been giving me cold shoulder since the Tuesday we went to the woods and… I get it, dude. It was a shitty night for…” Stiles’ breath left his lungs in a rush as he found himself suddenly pressed to the side of his jeep, Scott’s grip on him impossibly tight.

“Do you, Stiles?” he growled, “Do you really get how shitty the night was for me?” 

Let it be known that Stiles had never been afraid of Scott in his life up until that moment. In that precise moment, he kinda was. And he was so shocked, he reacted the same way he would if it was anyone else shoving him against his jeep. 

With snark.

“Yeah. Dark woods, scary sounds, monsters in the dark. Almost like the first five minutes in every episode of Supernatural ever. Well, congratulation Scott, you’ve survived.” 

He expected lots of things. But to be picked up from the ground and thrown at his jeep again, that was a surprise. He yelped and painfully banged his head against the metal. Scott’s hands were painfully curled around his shoulders, fingers digging into the flash. 

“It was YOUR fault, I was in the woods that night. YOUR fault!” he roared in his face. 

A weak whimper escaped Stiles’ throat and he would be embarrassed if anyone else heard the pitiful sound, but this was Scott. And hopefully, they could still play it of as some kind of misunderstanding and all will be good. Because as much as Stiles would be willing to share a fair amount of the responsibility of that night, he never would and never could force Scott to do anything he didn’t want to do. And Scott knew it. 

That’s why there was no shame admitting to his friend, “Scott. Scott, you’re hurting me.” 

The pressure suddenly lifted and he sagged a little against the car. Stiles touched his head gingerly. Looking up from his lowered position, he caught the horrified expression on Scott’s face before it shifted into that disconcerting blank look again. 

“Look, I have to go, I am almost late for the shift at the clinic. I’ll call you later, ok?”

No apology, no explanation. 

What the fuck? What the hell was happening with Scott? Stiles stared wide-eyed as his best friend turned around. Then he saw him hesitate as he was about to mount his bike.

He gave Stiles a side look and asked quietly, “You ok?” 

Stiles blinked, “Just a bump on the head.” 

The other boy nodded, seemingly to himself. 

“You’ll walk it off.” 

And with that last remark, he pulled off from the parking lot. 

 

>>>>>>>

 

When his dad opened the door to his room the same evening, Stiles was standing in front of the wall full of post-it notes and threads of different colour connecting them. The sheriff sighed tiredly “Stiles, we had a deal. I let you peek at some of my cases but it happens only with my permission.”

“What?” Stiles only then noticed the sheriff who was looking at the wall with a pointed look. “Ah, no. It’s not like that. I just have a hard time figuring something out and this helps. And besides,” Stiles suddenly grinned, “you can't call the deal off. Not when I have a knack for solving cases that are deemed hopeless. Let’s be honest, with Aderall? I am unstoppable.”

“That’s what I am scared off, kiddo,” his father retorted, amused by Stiles’ antics and took a step closer, “Trouble with Scott?”

“How did you know?”

“Stiles, I may not be as unstoppable as you,” the older man rolled his eyes fondly, “but I am still sheriff, give me some credit. There is Scott’s photo in the middle of the wall with horns and question marks. It’s not hard to tell.” 

At that, the boy huffed a laugh and crossed the room to sit on the chair by the table. “I don’t know, dad,” he shrugged helplessly, “he is acting weird. Like, way weirder than is our standard. And today I confronted him. About him ignoring me and some other stuff. It got physical,” he frowned at the older man. 

“Scott?” sheriff uttered in disbelief, “doesn’t sound like him.” he sat on Stiles’ bed, hands on his knees. 

“Right?! I couldn’t believe it either, but he threw me against the car.” 

Stiles immediately regretted sharing that particular detail, when he saw his father’s face harden. “Did he hurt you?” 

“No,” he quickly assured him, “just a bump on the head. Really dad, I was more surprised than anything!” Well, that wasn’t exactly the whole truth, but he decided his dad didn’t need to know that. 

“He has been giving me cold shoulder for tha past few weeks, which I partly deserved. But all the other things? The anger outbursts? The violence? I think something happened and I need to know what it is to help him, because he. Just. Wouldn’t. Talk to me.” With that, he sighed and ran his hand through his hair. 

When he looked at his father again, the man had a contemplative look in his eyes. “Do you want me to talk to Melissa?” 

“God, dad! No!” Stiles shrieked at that. “That wouldn’t help at all. It’s like, the last resort!” 

Sheriff held his hands up trying to placate Stiles, but stated firmly “All right, but if his behaviour doesn’t change, or it gets worse, we’re bringing Melissa into this. She has the right to know, son.” He waited for the teenager to nod and then he looked at his wrist watch. 

“You have a shift tonight?” Stiles asked even though the uniform was the answer on its own. 

“Yeah, I was actually on my way to the station. With Ramirez gone on the maternity leave, and half of the deputies down with flu, we are kind of underhanded.” 

“I can help at the station. I know my way around.” 

“Thanks kiddo, but you know you can’t. Not until you are out of high school.” 

“Which is like two months away, come on dad, I want to help,” 

“And if you still want to in two months, we will talk about it.” 

Stiles huffed but knew the tone his father was using now. It was his “I-am-the-sheriff-and-you-better-listen-to-me tone and that meant there was no room for arguments. Stiles knew how to choose his battles, so he retreated quickly with: “OK, dad. But you better be prepared. You won’t have this excuse in two months.” 

The sheriff smirked as he stood in the doorway, preparing to leave. “Yeah, I know. Anyway, I should back in the morning. Stay out of trouble.”

“You too, dad.” The teenager said and listened as the sheriff made his way down the stairs. Then he scrambled out of his bedroom. 

“Hey! And no burgers for midnight snack! You have to watch your pressure, old man!” he reminded loudly from the top of the stairs.  
Sheriff grumbled but eventually nodded and with the wave, he left.

 

>>>>>>

 

It was an old habit. The one he picked after his mother died. Being a single parent hadn’t allowed his dad a break from his duties of the sheriff and Stiles very often ended up alone in the middle of the night. House eerily silent, with dark corners that only used to prompt his wild imagination. That’s why sheriff came with an unusual solution. The old police radio transmission still sat on the corner of his desk and Stiles used it as a background noise when he got into his binge google searching. It soothed him. Knowing what was going on around the town and with his dad. 

He was just finishing the paper about male circumcision, when something unusual picked his attention. 

“… I repeat, code 11-80. Road C15, near the preserve. Call an ambulance.” The transmission wasn’t very clear, but the numbers were easy to understand – traffic accident, major injuries. The reply was immediate.

“Understood. Do you see the license plate? “

The silence now was a little longer and then: “God, Mark… it’s the sheriff. I will…”

The chair fell to the ground as Stiles shot out of the room. He stumbled on the stairs and almost faceplanted on the floor. His mind caught up with his body only when his shaking hand was turning the keys in ignition. 

“Fuck...FUCK!”

The tires screeched painfully when he got on the road. The jeep flew through the streets dangerously fast, maybe too dangerously considering its old age, but Stiles didn’t care. Roscoe wouldn’t betray him now. 

He was sure that if his dad saw… 

Jesus, his dad.  
He took the sharp turn to the left on the next crossroad, tires screeching again, and pushed the pedal to the floor. It might have been only several minutes, but for him, it seemed like forever before he saw the lights of a police cruiser. And it seemed like he arrived merely a moment after the ambulance. 

He scrambled from the jeep, hitting his elbow in the process. 

“Dad!” he yelled and ran to the group of paramedics hunched on the ground. Stiles was only several steps from them when he was grabbed from behind and turned around. But he saw. 

Jesus, he saw. 

His dad was lying on the ground like a rag doll. Both of his legs bent unnaturally, his facial features and shirt obscured by the blood. It took him several moment to register the deputy in front of him. 

“Stiles! Stiles! Do you hear me? It’s gonna by alright. Breathe! Just breathe! Jesus fucking Christ, kid, BREATHE!” 

Huh, the teenager thought as he stared at Parish’ scared expression, that’s the first panic attack in two years. Everything was muted. The blare of the ambulance, the shouting of the people trying to save his father, even the deputy’s voice seemed off. He realized he couldn’t breathe. His throat was closed off and all he heard was the loud erratic beating of his own heart. Then the world shifted and he found himself on the ground, turned away from the scene. And just when he thought it would never end, he blacked out. 

 

>>>>>

 

Stiles had felt numb the two days leading to the funeral. Only mechanically responding when asked a question. The responsibility of the funeral fell on him, but it was Parrish and Morales who did everything. And he had never been more grateful to anyone in his life. He couldn’t have done it. 

Not when he woke up only to find the house empty. 

Not when he tried to call Scott and Melissa only for it to fall to the answering machine. 

Not when he felt truly and utterly alone. 

He watched his father’s coffin to be lowered to the ground next to his mum and his only consolation was the fact, that they were together. The deputies payed their respect and offered Stiles quiet condolences. The only one brave enough to touch him was Parrish and it was only before the ceremony. The teenager clang to him as long as he could, even though they weren’t that close. 

Now, with the folded American flag in his hands, he craved the touch. He would have done anything for a hug, an anchoring hand on his shoulder, or a hand he could squeeze. But when he looked around, Stiles saw only deputies and dad’s friends. The only two living people who he now cared about weren’t there. The empty chairs reserved for Scott and Melissa mocked him the entire ceremony. He didn’t have the mental capacity to be mad at them, although he couldn’t understand why they weren’t there. With him. 

What he did come understand though, as he stood in front of his parents’ graves and stared at the new tombstone, was the fact, that he had no one. His dad was gone and his best friend and the only mother figure that he had left didn’t care. His pleas had gone unanswered. 

He was unheard.

He was untouched.

He was unseen. 

Stiles caught the reflection of his blurry figure on the polished stone and something shifted in him.

“Dad,” he broke the silence, tears welling up in his eyes for the first time since the accident, “I don’t think I can walk this off.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles had no idea how he got home that day. But he realized he had just sat on the couch for an unknown amount of time, staring at nothing, and decided that the least he could do was to change from the suit. The suit he would never wear again if he could help it. He got up shakily and began his descent up the stairs, some of them creaking from old age under his weight. He desperately ignored his dad’s bedroom door. It was too soon. 

Once in his room, he mechanically changed the clothes and went straight to bed, where he curled into a ball and squeezed the eyes shut. He could almost pretend everything was fine like this, with his eyes and door and mind closed. But it wasn’t. A lump formed in his throat, but he breathed through it, not concentrating on anything else. Maybe he had even fallen asleep for a minute, he wasn’t sure. The next time, he looked at the phone, it was just after three in the morning. With uncomfortably empty stomach, he sat up and decided to finally grab something to eat. 

When he dragged his body through the dark house to the kitchen, he noticed a note on the counter, encouraging him to call if he needed anything and informing him, there was some food in the fridge. The name was nearly unrecognizable but Stiles remembered Parrish’s handwriting. He had to read police report written by him. Stiles peaked in the fridge and found several plastic containers with precooked meals. 

He doubted he could stomach eating any of them at that moment. Instead, he reached for the apple he saw forgotten on the highest shelf. But as his bad luck demanded, Stiles accidently bump into the opened carton of milk. He fumbled, trying to catch it before it hit the floor. 

Thud.

He stared at the carton, milk leaking on the floor. He would have to clean it up. If his dad saw him, he would reprimand him fondly and then probably laugh his ass off. Stiles felt something beginning to stir in his chest and let out a shuddering breath. He looked at the apple he was still somehow holding in his hand and realized his knuckles were white from the strength of his grip, his short nails digging in the red skin as the juice trailed down his arm. 

Without warning, he draw the hand back and hurled the apple at the wall. The resulting sound was oddly satisfying to hear. Stiles really didn’t think about it. He just grabbed the first thing within his reach and threw it again. And again. And again. There were no screams. No shouts.

Only the sound of something metalic hitting the floor brought him from his destructive mood. Chest heaving from extortion, he rounded the table and froze.  
There it was. His father’s police badge, laying next to a puddle suspiciously looking like spaghetti carbonara. Parrish must have brought the badge to him even though it wasn’t exactly allowed. Stiles clenched his jaw and squatted down to carefully retrieve it. It was in pristine condition, even after all those years. He stroked it tenderly with his thumb and his eyes welled up once again.

And then, pressing the badge to his forehead, Stiles let go. 

He crumbled on the kitchen floor and wept, his body shaking with loud ugly sobs. But he didn’t care. Because Stiles would never see his dad again. He would never have to pretend he didn’t see the cookies the sheriff tried to smuggle into the shopping card. He would never watch another baseball game with him. They would never solve another case together. Stiles would never hear him say a stupid dad joke that would make him laugh anyway. He would never have another chance to tell his dad he loved him. 

He sat there until the morning light shined through the dirty window and the alarm on his phone, intending to wake him, went off. Stiles tiredly scrubbed at his cheeks to wipe the last remnants of tears off and slowly unfolded himself from his position on the floor. If his stomach had been uncomfortably empty before, now the feeling was downright painful. He picked up the banged up apple and without much thought took a bite out of it. 

Stiles wasn’t ok. Not in the slightest. And he would not be for some time. But the boy was aware, that the way he was wired wasn’t meant for long periods of hardcore grieving. He would go crazy if he had to stay in the house where only ghosts of his parents kept him company. He had to do something productive. His mind was at the same time too slow and too fast, buzzing with alarming ideas. So he quickly finished the apple and went to grab his favourite hoodie. Then he carefully tucked the police badge in one of his pockets and ventured out of the house.

 

>>>>>>>

 

Thinking back, Stiles should have known something was seriously fucked up, when he passed his neighbour and the old lady hadn’t stop him to very loudly express her opinion about the youth and how no one respects their elders anymore, which she used to do every time as long as he could remember. EVERY time! But Stiles honestly hadn’t even noticed. He lazily strolled the streets, not really looking where he was going. He tried to concentrate on everyday's things. Like homework and classes in school. Lacrosse matches. And Scott.  
His best friend Scott. His best friend Scott, who had been behaving like an idiot this past month. His best friend Scott who physically attacked him. His best friend Scott who hadn’t come to Stiles’ dad's funeral. Hadn’t showed up at his house, hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. 

Stiles frowned and stopped walking. He hesitantly shifted the weight from one foot to the other and lingered at the spot for a bit. Then, with determined narrow line of his mouth, he began the march to McCalls’ house. Let’s see what they have to say for themselves, because missing his dad’s funeral?

“Shitty move, Scotty-boy, a really shitty move,” Stiles muttered to himself, feeling a little bit unhinged. 

When he arrived to the house, he tried the door but it was locked. Humming under his breath, Stilles took out the spare from the flowerpot nearby, and opened it. He didn’t bother announcing his presence and made a beeline right to Scott’s room. He let the door slam to the wall and stepped inside with a very loud and very angry: “Listen, you asshole!” 

But he was alone in the room. He looked around, confused, until the noticed unmade bed and missing bag. 

“Jesus, it’s Friday. Of course it’s Friday. He’s in school, idiot!” Stiles laughed at himself bitterly and run his hand through his hair. He considered leaving a note, or maybe trashing his room a bit, but that was petty and when he remembered all the voice messages he left on Scott’s phone, he decided against notes, too. He quietly left Scott’s house and put the key where it belonged. 

He was just turning around, when he caught the sight of the uniform and it took him a second to remind himself, that it wasn’t his dad. Then Stiles needed a moment to calm down. Another panic attack would be bad. Instead, when he caught his breath, he jogged quickly to the officer and found Parrish walking to his car with two cups of coffee in his hands. Parrish looked… bad. Sometimes Stiles forgot it was his dad that took the young officer under his wings. They were close and Stiles suspected his dad had been grooming Parish to take on the sheriff’s role one day. He thought of the meals and the police badge, the funeral, the accident. 

He decided that a thank you and maybe a hug was in order. 

“Hey! Parrish!”

Nothing. Stiles quickly jogged closer and tried again.

“Parrish, hi!”

The deputy didn’t even look at him. He simply put the cups on the hood of the car and stared at them. Narrowing his eyes, Stiles reached his hand to tap Parrish on his shoulder. 

He paused. 

Stiles couldn’t touch it!

He couldn’t touch Parrish at all! It seemed like there was some sort of barrier between them.

“Holy shit,” Stiles reeled back and felt his heart speed up. He moved hastily until he was right in front of the man. But there was no awareness in his eyes. He didn’t see Stiles.

“Dude, say something. This is starting to freak me out!”

Parrish leaned his head against the side of the car. He would have crushed Stiles but his body changed the trajectory at the last second. Nonetheless, the teenager squeaked and jumped to the side. He tried again several times to catch the man’s attention with not much success. 

Watching Parrish leave in his car at last, Stiles threw his hands up in the frustration. “What the hell was that?” 

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

That evening Stiles found himself standing in front of the wall in his room once again. Only question marks still stuck to it, Scott’s photo with all of Stiles’ notes were thrown on the floor.

After the initial panic attack – and Stiles didn’t want to think about that one, nope – his mind went to overdrive with possible reasons he was obviously invisible to Parrish. And staying true to his analytical thinking, Stiles had tried to talk to another five people. To gather more data. He almost attacked the two random passers-by he had spoken to in frustration and cried in front of three shop assistants. Only then he retreated home once again to try to make some sense of the knowledge he gained. 

No one saw him, even if was standing right in front of them. 

No one heard him, even though he was shouting obscenities in their ears.

And he couldn’t touch anyone, or be touched in return. 

Stiles felt himself shiver, his whole body shaking with the strength of it, as he realized in cold terror, that he was truly invisible. 

If you knew Stiles at least a little bit, you couldn’t come up with worse punishment. He was a motor mouth. The need to talk constantly partly stemming from his ADHD and partly because it was just his character. And to have no one to talk to? To have others completely unaware of his existence?

His knees gave out and he landed on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves,  
> we are two chapters in, how do you like it so far? I am aware this one is a little bit shorter but it just makes sense more this way. 
> 
> And another thing. To be completely honest I may not be able publish the chapters weekly with my other responsibilities. O.o To combine writting, school, work isn't piece of cake AND my beta reader has her own responsibilities as well. It is kinda lot. :D But I'll try anyway. I'll keep you posted. 
> 
> !!!!!! OK, so as I predicted, the next chapter will be published a little bit late. O.o Thank you for your patience, loves! 
> 
> Keep being fabulous!!
> 
> Huggywolf
> 
> *awkwardly waves and tiptoes away.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning light streamed through the lilac curtains into the bedroom. Stiles tried to ignore it. The bed was fairly comfortable and the covers were so soft he could almost convince himself he was in his old room. But he wasn’t. Because this bedroom? It obviously belonged to a girl. The boy-bands’ posters, the dressing-table and a concerning number of stuffed teddy bears? Yeah, it was definitely a girl’s room.

On the bed Stiles turned on the other side to try to shield his eyes. Then he groaned as if giving up and blinked his eyes open only to grimace in discomfort. He was staying in that room for the past two weeks and still wasn’t used to the ever present stares directed at him from the posters. He wasn’t used to it anymore, being seen. It had been almost two years since someone has been able to catch even the smallest glimpse of him.

From his position Stiles reached under the bed for a black duffel bag. All of his possessions were crammed in there, except his laptop. He really didn’t need much - some clothes, two or three books and hygiene stuff. Stiles had learned some time ago that having too much on you wasn’t the smartest decision. And he constantly moved, drifted from place to place. 

He told himself it was because of his job, but really, the main reason was the sinking feeling in his stomach every time he became too comfortable in one place. As if something urged him to move to another. Think all you want but Stiles accepted it without much fuzz. 

After the trip to the bathroom he changed from his pyjamas and ventured to the kitchen. 

“Bob, Emma, good morning,” Stiles acknowledged the middle-aged couple sitting at the table although he knew they wouldn’t hear him. It was a polite thing to do. He had been staying in their daughter’s bedroom after all. Wow, that sounded creepy. But the girl was at college and wasn’t supposed to come back home for at least another week. He would be on his way by then. And he regularly sneaked some cash to Emma’s purse, so really, it was almost like Airbnb. 

When he left Beacon Hills, it was in a hurry. When Stiles thought about it now, he had to admit, it had been a rush decision. He wasn’t exactly the picture of mental stability then. Not that he was now, but it could have been much worse. 

After the discovery of his curse, he had spent several painful days trying to accept his situation. However, he left the house and Beacon Hills almost immediately, his flight or fight response clearly favouring the second options. When his mind cleared a bit, he realized he couldn’t force himself to go back. The urge to get as far away from his home time as possible was too strong. 

The first thing he found out on his travels? His condition was very specific. People weren’t aware of his physical form, though he still could communicate via technology. It would be very easy to find a flat he could move to, far from Beacon Hills, but he kind off forgot he could not exactly SIGN the renting contract. And not being able to meet his landlord face to face? It would have been shady. And only shady people rented flats to other shady people. 

What he was able to do though, was to sell the house. He didn’t plan to return to Beacon Hills anyway. Parrish already had the power to sign legal documents for Stiles until he finished high school or find a proper job. The only thing Stiles needed to do was leaving Parrish a cryptic e-mail begging him to follow his wishes. 

So you see, money wasn’t a problem. He was squatting at other people’s houses like a weirdo for practical reasons. And maybe he craved the illusion of normal human contact. So sue him. 

Stiles ignored the silence in the kitchen and strolled to the table. He casually picked a slice of bacon out of Bob’s plate when he wasn’t looking. “You know, you should ease up on that. You’re not young anymore, no offence,” he scolded the older man and sat down on the available chair. 

Bob was working as an accountant in a local company. Average height, grey spots appearing in his dark hair, double chin. The stress of his work and lack of sport was beginning to show on his waist. 

Emma, on the other hand, was very fit. She was a nurse and a big fan of yoga. Stiles sometimes joined her in the morning routine. 

His remark was once again met with silence. It wasn’t unusual, the married couple seemed comfortable just enjoying the quiet breakfast. Stiles really, really wanted to be able to do that, too – to genuinely enjoy silence.

Then Bob looked up from his plate and asked: “Have you heard from Vanessa?” 

“No, but it’s an exam period. She’s busy.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

A pause. And then…

“So you don’t know when she is coming home?”

Stiles zeroed on Bob at the same time Emma looked up from the tablet. She tended to read newspaper on it. “She comes home once a month. You know it.”

The older man drummed his fingers on the table, appearing deeply in thought. Stiles groaned loudly: “Oh my God, Bob! Don’t do it. Man, please.” 

“You know, I just thought, if she had her own car, she could come home more often.”

“And here we go again,” Stiles commented, leaning on the back of the chair with an amused chuckle.

Emma was now watching Bob like a hawk, icy blue eyes narrowed. “And where would she get this car?” 

“And Bob’s middle age crisis in three…”

“She can drive the one we have now. It has splendid safety measures, you know.”

“Two…”

“And we could buy a new one! I know you were against Audi...”

“One…”

“…but the new model of Mercedes CLS I was showing you yesterday...”

“…and I’m out of here. See you in the evening,” Stiles exclaimed just as he saw Emma open her mouth. He is not ashamed to admit he had basically run out of the house. 

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Being alone can be a good thing, some would say almost therapeutic. You have time to think and sort yourself out. To really get to know yourself. But what people shouldn’t forget, what they really shouldn’t forget is that being alone is bearable only if it is voluntary, only if it’s temporary.

Humans are after all social creatures. Our cognitive function basically demands social interactions. Because being alone is just a step away from being lonely and that’s where the real shitstorm begins. And Stiles was very acutely aware of that. 

He remembered every second of the first two months after he had left Beacon Hills. He was still deeply mourning and when paired up with his little problem, it made for one hell of a Molotov cocktail. He had been staying at random old-fashioned motels. It wasn’t really that hard to steal keys and then after staying for a week or two, leaving money at the check desk. And a fully stocked minibar in every motel room was exactly what he had thought he needed. 

Then came the phase of loud music and research binges. When he shook off the last remnants of hungover, he had decided to refuse the possibility that he was the only one with this condition. And if he could communicate via technology, then others could, too. So there was a chance that someone, somewhere, recorded another case. There had been hope.

However, the research lead nowhere and after two weeks he emerged from one of the motel rooms, shoulders slumped down in defeat, bruises under his eyes and emptiness in his stomach. 

Stiles would lie if he said he didn’t remember the following period of time at all. He had recollections of some days. Foggy memories of shitty things he did only because he could, only because no one was watching. Egging expensive cars, stealing, excessive drinking and let’s not forget about public indecency. It was cringe-worthy to say at least. The only bright side was that even in his slightly crazed state, he never took any drugs. 

The moment of clarity came to him one Sunday what seemed like ages ago. It had been the loud barking that woke him up combined with the buzzing on his skin that happened every time he was made aware of his weird unbreakable personal bubble. He had opened his eyes and yelped when he saw a big head of a retriever that had been snuffling and barking at him curiously. He laying in the grass, naked from waist down. In the park. Stiles ignored the dog, and frantically patted himself down. When his fingerers brushed the police badge, he let out a relieved sigh. He never went out without it. 

“Stay out of trouble.”

As the words flashed through his mind, he felt his cheeks grew warm in shame. His father’s last words to him. 

Fuck, he would be so disappointed.

“Thanks for a reminder, dad,” Stiles mumbled and stood up. His ass felt cold and kinda numb, but he didn’t pay any mind to that. He had a lot to do. 

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

When Stiles left Bob and Emma to their argument, he quickly grabbed his messenger bag and went to his favourite café near town’s centre. He had been in Richmond for several months and he went there quite regularly. After the whole time, he had system in place. He waited by the front door for someone to open the door. It was easier to slip inside that way, because as he had found out, not only he wasn’t able to touch anyone else, but apparently he couldn’t move any object while someone other than Stiles was looking at it. It was as if his invisibility was spread by touch, the things in his hands disappearing the moment he got to them. 

When a couple of women exited the café, he hurried inside and immediately made a beeline for a counter. Even though it was not even ten am, café was buzzing with people and waiters had their hands full. 

“Hey there, my lovely ray of sunshine, what do you got for me today?” Stiles purred at the tall barista. He was Stiles’ favourite. Still relatively new and clumsy, which meant he never noticed the missing cups of coffees. Stiles strategically hovered near him until he was done with the current order and the second the barista put the finished cup of coffee on the counter and moved to another order, Stiles snatched it quickly and put the money in the TIPS tin. 

He looked around for any free seats and spotted one by the table that was situated next to a big window. There was a petite woman sitting there. She was around his age with strawberry blond hair, currently furiously writing on her notebook. Stiles made his way to her table and flopped into the chair. But not before he looked what she was writing, call it an unhealthy curiosity. It had something to do with… math?

“Damn, beauty and brain, now that is a killer combination, let me tell you,” he began as he tried to carefully lower his coffee on the table and tucking his messenger bag between his feet at the same time. It was important he didn’t stop touching the things he was holding, or they would appear for others to see.

Of course he spilled some of the hot liquid on his finger.

“Fuck,” he cursed, quickly switching hands on the cup to shake the burnt limb. 

When he looked up again the woman seemed to take a break and was staring outside the window with a pinched expression. But Stiles wasn’t discouraged, he was used to it after all. 

“Me personally? If I could choose, I wouldn’t study math. My brain and I are more interested in other fields. Aaand speaking of brains, it reminds me I have forgotten to take aderall this morning, damn it.” 

He had the bottle in his bag, but it would be too much pain to open it with only one hand, as he had to keep hold of his coffee.

“Criminology would be more down my alley. I mean, I work as a PI now and I have always wanted to be a cop. It’s a shame I won’t be able to become one. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job, even though at least fifty percent of my cases consists of following a cheating spouses. And being invisible… or in my case, invisible deluxe, makes my job really easy. You wouldn’t believe how crazy some of these cases end up being.”

He sipped his coffee careful not to burn his tongue and continued.

“Like this one guy, he cheated on his girlfriend with all of her sisters and brothers. There were five of them. Like, seriously, where the dude got the stamina for that much action? Poor Amy was crushed. They had been together for five years. And you know what the dude said to her when she confronted him with the evidence?”

Stiles paused for dramatic effect.

“At least it stayed in the family!” he almost facepalmed himself just remembering the idiot, “Such a dick! I may or may not have dismantled his fucking car.”

He leaned back and sipped at his coffee again, examining the woman before him. She was still staring from the window, the corners of her mouth curled up. She looked almost reluctantly amused. 

Stiles peered from the window as well but found nothing interesting there.

“Anyway, you! Math! That is kinda awesome. God, the nerds at the college don’t know what to do with you, do they? I bet you are really smart, too. What do I know, maybe I am sitting here with the next Nobel price nominee.”

He chuckled and rubbed his thumb on the cup. Stiles looked around, noting that the café was still rather busy, when he suddenly caught a movement from the corner of his eyes. The woman was rummaging through her bag, her eyebrows drawn into a frown. She fished the handsfree out and immediately tucked it into her left ear. 

He turned to the window, trying to give her at least a pretense of privacy during a call when: 

“Fields medal.” 

Stiles’ eyes flicked to her. She had nice voice. The woman then added hesitantly with an unreadable expression on her face.

“The highest recognition the mathematician can achieve isn’t Nobel price, but Fields medal.”

Stiles froze. 

He felt a shiver run up his spine when she was suddenly looking his way, almost as if she could see him. 

“I… You… What?” he asked in strangled voice.

“Are you deaf? You heard me the first time.” She rolled her eyes but the hesitant tone hadn’t left her voice. 

He stared at her. It was not possible. Of course it was not possible. 

“Fuck! Not again. Not again, damn it. It’s not real, Stiles!” he whimpered.

It wasn’t the first time Stiles’ grasp of reality slipped, leaving only hallucinations behind. It had been usually Scott or his dad appearing before him, like some kind of sick joke. Oh, and let’s not forget Jackson on one memorable occasion. But this was the first time he saw someone he didn’t know. What if it was a sign he was getting worse? It was such a long time since the last incident. But still…

“What the hell is Stiles?” 

“Oh, shut up and go away. You’re not real,” he moaned and slowly lowered his head on his knees. 

“I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered. Of course I am real.” 

“You’re not. It wouldn’t be the first time. It’s just…” he choked and felt his breathing dangerously speeding up.

“Do you see your fingers?”

The question was…unexpected. He lifted his head again and found the woman looking at the table with a frown on her face. People from the nearest table were sneaking a curious looks at her and that was probably more reassuring then the question itself. Other people could see her. Good. 

“I do.”

“Count them. If you’re not sure of reality, you count your fingers. You have extras if you’re dreaming. And look at my hands, I have ten fingers. I AM real.” She laid both of her hands on the table trying not to be too obvious about it. They were pretty, clearly looked after. She had her long nails painted light pink. Ten nails on ten fingers. 

Stiles hurriedly looked at his own hands. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten. Ten fingers. Ten fucking fingers. The relief made him dizzy.

“This is real,” he whispered reverently, “you are real and you can see me.”

“No, I can’t. But I can hear you,” she quirked a small smile and his direction and added, “and for the record. You know how ironic it is for me to have to persuade you I am real when you are…well, I don’t know what you are.” 

Stiles let out a huff of laughter, calming down, “Hey, I like to think I am a deluxe version of the Invisible man.”

She rolled her eyes again, it seems she did it a lot, “Of course you do. You are actually a giant nerd, aren’t you?” 

“Excuse me?” He gasped mockingly, “what is wrong with that?”

She scrunched her nose in distaste, “Two words – plaid shirts.” 

Stiles looked down at his own clothes. He wore a plaid overshirt. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She smirked knowingly and slurped her coffee.

 

>>>

 

Stiles spent in that café another three hours talking to the woman, Lydia as she introduced herself. The conversation was light, Lydia’s dry humour mixing well with Stiles’ sarcasm. They talked about everything from her school to his job. Stiles was impressed how quickly Lydia caught on the logic of investigating and he was confident enough to say the glint in her eyes, when he asked relevant question about her paper, was rather excited. They hadn’t mentioned the big invisible elephant in the room for about two months. Not even when their meetings grew regular and they exchanged phone numbers. That is until Lydia texted him one morning nothing but an address. 

He found out Lydia rented a flat in rather posh neighbourhood. She was studying at MIT, but was enjoying the break from school exams and working on her thesis. She planned to stay another month in the town and then return to college. 

His visit at Lydia’s that day had been terrifying and liberating all at once. She opened in oversized hoodie, her hair pulled into a messy bun and made them coffee, patiently facing away from the mugs until Stiles could grab his. Then she sat on a sofa. 

“What happened to you?” 

Well, she didn’t beat around the bush. 

Stiles stared at his mug for a second and then took a deep breath. Sometime over the past months he grew to trust her. So he told her everything. About his dad, about the funeral, and about the encounter with Parrish when he first realized something was wrong. He told her about his invisibility, the rules, how he managed to work. And then he told her his surname. She could now looked him up if she wanted. 

“So you’ve been like this almost two years?” 

She sounded horrified when he finished. 

“Yeah.” 

She put the mug on the table and played with the hem of her hoodie. She didn’t ask any more questions right then and Stiles was grateful for that. Instead, she chuckled, the sound of it somehow bitter, and murmured “quid pro quo”.

And then she told him her own story. How she could sometimes hear voices whispering about death, about people she didn’t know, about things she didn’t understand. How she lived with her mother for a while but weren’t able to hide it. How close she came to being admitted to a psychiatric clinic. How close she came to finding dead bodies several times over the past three years. How living in a big city made it worse. How she thought she was going crazy. How Stiles sounded different than other voices to her. Clearer. More normal. How that was the reason why she had tried to speak with him.

After that, they drank their coffee and opened a bottle of wine. Stiles liked call that day “The Friendship Awakens Day”. Lydia liked to ignore him for hours after that, saying she could never be friends with such a nerd. But soft smile on her face betrayed her every time. And the thing about Lydia, even when she purposely ignored him, she never held her facial expressions in check. So that even then, Stiles still knew she could hear him. 

If he was in high school, he would moon over Lydia. That was for sure. But he wasn’t anymore. Stiles could recognize they were too similar and too different in things that mattered. Nonetheless, their friendship grew over the time they knew each other, became more intimate, even if not in a romantic sense of the word. 

Stiles travelled a lot because of his job, so they didn’t see each other regularly. But they called each other at least once a week. Stiles hadn’t been the only one who felt painfully lonely. You don’t have to be invisible to feel like that. Lydia knew many people but hadn’t had a friend who she could trust with the little fucked up secret of her own. And really, Stiles wouldn’t be so daring to say he was happy. But the future didn’t seem so gloomy anymore. 

And that was why he knew he was fucked when Lydia called him almost a year into their friendship and instead of usual greeting said: “I need you to go to Beacon Hills.” 

He never wanted to go back. 

He would if she asked him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves, I am sorry it took so long. Still hope you like it thought. :) 
> 
> And a big spoiler for the next chapter... "THE EYBROWS ARE COMING" :D


	4. Chapter 4

“OK, so tell me again,” Stiles ordered and squeezed the phone between his arm and ear while keeping both hands on the steering wheel. 

“Stiles, are you calling me while driving?” Lydia screeched, “we talked about this! Driving car is too dangerous for you, that’s why I booked you a seat on the bus from the airport!”

“I know, I know, but I didn’t feel like taking a bus and I am driving on side roads. It’s safe, trust me. And hey, the scenery isn’t halfway bad, almost making me want to go on a vacation.”

There was a suspicious silence and then Lydia sighed, “You’re stalling.”

“Lydia, I was on the other side of the country yesterday, enjoying the empty villa with a private pool. The only thing I am enjoying now is stale food from Seven Eleven and questionably working air conditioning. All that while I am driving to the place that has shit ton of trauma and my parents’ graves stored for me. Only because you said so. I think I am entitled to take my fucking time,” Stiles bit out more harshly then he intended. 

Then he squeezed the hands on the steering wheel and let out a frustrated huff, “Sorry. I am on the edge. I have never thought I would be going back to Beacon Hills. And I really don’t want to. But you said it was important. And I trust you and your annoying minions.” 

Stiles then cleared his throat awkwardly. He was telling the truth. He was absolutely petrified by the thought of Beacon Hills and wasn’t ready to go back even if it was for work. But it wasn’t the first time Lydia called him out of nowhere only to forward a cryptic message he learned not to ignore. It seemed like their friendship didn’t go unnoticed by whoever was whispering into Lydia’s ears. The messages usually led him to mildly dangerous situations. Mildly, because he was safe in his invisibility. And it was precisely because of that little detail, that he was able to help, sometimes even saving lives. After second time his presence led to solving a major case, Lydia forced him to obtain business cards with a new cover name that mysteriously appeared with tip his off letters and in crime scenes. 

It gave him a really peculiar reputation. 

“I know Stiles, really, I wouldn’t force you to go but the voices are really loud this time,” Lydia answered soothingly and then added, “Look, I am still stuck at school now, but give me three weeks and I’ll be there.”

He blinked in surprise. 

“There? You’re going to Beacon Hills, too?”

“Yeah. The least I can do, right? Besides, someone has to be there when you screw up.”

“Har har, very funny. I am howling with laughter. Now if you’re done with your comedic number, tell me again what the voices say”

Lydia laughed quietly but sobered rather quickly “To go to Beacon Hills and to find the wolf with ash in its coat.”

“Damn it. I hoped I remembered it wrong. It’s short this time.”

It was. They usually got several sentences out of the invisible meddlers. Stiles smirked. He was always up to solving a good puzzle. 

“I already checked the records and there are no wolves in California. Haven’t been for decades,” Lydia interrupted the silence. 

“No, but there is a wolf sanctuary near the Beacon Hills’ preserve, maybe there will be something there.”

Stiles heard the tapping as Lydia wrote on her keyboard. “The sanctuary is a dead getaway. They closed it two years ago due to financial problems.”

“No reports of escaping wolves?”

“The article doesn’t say. But it isn’t me with hacking skills. I can’t look at the police reports.”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “Never mind. I am a few miles from Beacon Hills. I will camp in the library and do my google-fu. Call you later today?”

 

“Tomorrow. There’s something I have to do. I had the Algorithm and Data Structure today.”

“Let me guess, another ineffective methodology?”

“So outdated it’s not even funny anymore.”

Stiles snorted, “And you took it upon yourself to show them how it is done. Again.”

“Naturally,” was a smug reply.

“How it is I am not even surprised. Tomorrow then. Later, Lyds,”

“Stiles, wait!”

“Hm?” 

“Just, be careful. I have a bad feeling about this,” there was a hint of worry in her voice.

“Awww,” Stiles crowed, “you do care about me.”

“You wish, nerd,” followed a swift answer. 

Stiles snorted unattractively but his next words were dead serious. “Don’t worry. They cannot hurt me if they don’t see me coming. Besides,” he couldn’t help the way corners of his lips twitched with restrained mirth, “I am a Ghost, remember?” 

She grumbled about him being a smartass and how she regretted suggesting this as his new code name, but Stiles knew she worried about him. Lydia having a bad feeling about something had never been something to joke about. 

He was so caught up in his head that he forgot to panic when he crossed the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign. When he parked his car in front of the public library, he paused for a moment. 

The streets looked almost the same as they did three years ago but when Stiles looked closely he noticed several shops he didn’t recognize. And it was weirdly soothing. In his mind he was coming back to the exact replica of the place he hated. Noticing the changes helped him to anchor himself. It wasn’t the same Beacon Hills he had left. And he wasn’t the same person who left it. 

Steeling himself, he stepped out of the car and made his way to the library. Once there, Stiles chose a small study desk in the corner and powered his laptop on. It took him only five minutes to hack in the server in the police station and knew that the sanctuary reported no animal escape. 

He looked for any unusual accidents regarding wildlife and found several cases of animal attack that happened this past eight weeks. Police wrote it off as a mountain lion attacks but Stiles wasn’t so sure. There weren't any pictures available and that was unusual at least.

So he kept looking. 

No sanctuary. No escape. No records of wolf-hybrid pets in town or nearby. He found some reports about big animal sighting but that was nothing out of ordinary. And he couldn’t afford spending time lost in the woods just on that.

Stiles stretched on the chair until his back cracked. Now was the time he ought to look at the clues from different angle. 

There was the mention of the ash in the wolf’s coat and it could mean many things, but Stiles suddenly remembered a hollow husk of the house in the preserve. The Hale fire. How could he forget about it! 

He typed “Beacon Hills fire accident” in the browser and was taken aback by the amount of titles that had in capital letters written MYSTERIOUS FIRE IN THE PRESERVE. He click on it.

“Beacon Hills is in deep mourning as Hales, one of the original families, perished in their home last Saturday. Out of the fifteen people presented in the house at that time, only three survivors emerged from the flames – Laura, Derek and Peter Hales. The last members of the once influential chose not to comment on the accident but have apparently no intention to stay in their hometown. The cause of fire…”

Stiles didn’t read the rest. He didn’t have to. There was an itch at the back of his mind that had him frantically reading police report on the accident and thoroughly investigating each of the three of the remaining Hales. Laura and Peter dying approximately three years back made Derek the sole Hale survivor. And coincidentally, the dude had been living in Beacon Hills for the past two years, buying the loft not too far from preserve.

Derek lost his whole family. That could make him a metaphorical lone wolf. And he survived the fire, which pointed to the ash reference. 

Stiles sat back with a slight smirk and stared at the last available photo of Derek Hale.

Now this, in his opinion, was the trace worth pursuing. And if he was right, he had to find out if Derek was a potential victim, or a would-be aggressor. 

In any case, Stiles would have a higher chance to help if he kept a close eye on the guy. And he needed somewhere to stay anyway. 

With that Stiles closed his laptop. He made a stop to get his duffel back from the car and began to walk lazily in a direction of Hale’s loft. He didn’t need to drive there. It was close enough and an unknown car would only spark an unwanted attention. 

When he got to the right building, he circled it to check the possible entrances, and then, because his stomach was killing him, he went back to the nearest convenience store to buy a snack before going in. He doubted he would have energy for proper snooping after the long drive, but he needed something to eat or he would be absolutely useless today. 

He wolfed down two tuna sandwiched and took a packet of peanut butter cup Reese’s only to tucked them into his hoodie pocket. 

With that out of way, he made his way back to the building and took the stairs to the second floor. He tried the door and his eyebrows rose high on his forehead because the door to the loft wasn’t bolted nor locked. He peeked inside and immediately noticed the television was on. 

There was a guy sitting on the big leather couch that dominated, with several armchairs, the space on the left side of the loft. Over all the place was bigger than he anticipated, the huge wall window making it optically even more so. He quietly stepped inside and slided the door behind him shut, keeping his eyes on the stranger to gauge if he was able to hear him. Now that he knew Lydia, he was much more careful. 

Once he was sure the door was closed again, he relaxed a bit. It seemed that he was once again safe, the guy seemed unaware of his presence. He was slouched on the couch in comfortably looking sweats and T-shirt. Huh, seemed like Hale lived with a roommate, because there’s no way the guy was Derek Hale. Hair too blond and too curly. And his features also weren’t similar to the young Derek from photos Stiles managed to find. It wasn’t that easy. The guy didn’t even have a Facebook. 

Weirdo. 

Stiles swoop the place with his eyes again, looking for an ideal place to hide his things. It shouldn’t be in the plain sight but at the same time easy to retreat quickly if necessary. In the end he chose to squeeze his duffel back under the sofa and after that checked if it was visible. He concluded that it should be fine.

Then he sat on the one of the armchairs with a satisfied groan. He wasn’t lying to Lydia when he said he was on edge. And combining it with a long drive and long research, yeah, he was tired. He would rest for a minute, no harm done. 

His attention slowly swayed to the TV show that was on and he realized what the Curly guy was watching. 

A police TV show. 

A very bad police TV show.

“Dude, no. Just no. It doesn’t even work like that. And he would be out of bullets ages ago, just FYI.” Stiles snarked after ten minutes and after ten more, he was fully prepared to fight the guy over the remote control, his invisibility be damned. 

Then the entrance door opened with a loud bang.

Both, Stiles and Curly, jumped in surprise. Stiles was frantically trying not to bump into anything as he flailed when he heard a loud ominous growl. His head snapped to the door.  
The guy standing there was definitely Derek Hale, although the rather cute teenager was gone, replaced with taller, broader and more intimidating version of the guy. Stiles was sure he caught a lot of attention on the streets with his chiselled jaw, artfully styled stubble, impressively thick eyebrows and red eyes. 

Wait. 

“What?” he screeched at the same time the blond guy stood up with a confused “Derek?” 

“Get behind me, Issac,” Derek growled and Stiles stared with his mouth open as the guy’s features began to change, his mind cataloguing each shift with morbid fascination. Pointed ears, glowing eyes, missing eyebrows, side burns, fangs, clawed hands. 

Stiles didn’t know how long he would continue staring in Derek’s face in shock if he didn’t realize the red eyes were turned in his direction. They were jumping from place to place, as if trying to find something, and getting uncomfortably close. Stiles realized almost too late that Derek made a beeline for him and only by pure luck he ducked just in time to avoid the clawed hand that passed inched from his head. 

He scrambled on his hands and knees behind the sofa, trying to put something between him and whatever Hale was. It worked only for a second because the guy drew a deep breath and zeroed on the armchair. 

Adrenaline pumping in his veins, Stiles didn’t wait for more and run for the door. But before he could even reach them, Derek’s muscled form blocked his path only to swipe at him again, growling constantly. Stiles stumbled sideways only to hit the wall, and groaned because damn, that hurt. He righted himself only to stopped in horror when he realized how close Hale was. Stiles hunched on himself, feeling small and vulnerable against the growling creature. He saw the clawed hand draw back to strike again and his own hands flew up to protect his face and neck. He squeezed his eyes and came to a rather surprising conclusion. 

He was going to die. 

He was going to die in this fucking town. 

Stiles would never admit it, but in that moment, in a millisecond, a tiny hidden part of him felt a dark acceptance. So this is the end. Of all the fucking ways he could go…  
He waited for the pain to come but when nothing happened he hesitantly opened his eyes. The guy still had his hand poised to attack but seemed frozen in place. 

Apart from his nostrils flaring as he drew deep breaths he was completely still. 

The red eyes were still staring in Stiles’ direction but he realized they were a little off and despite his breathing being a little too fast and a little too shallow, he felt a profound relief. Derek couldn’t see him. Even his attack were too wide, too unfocused. 

Their little stand-off was interrupted by hesitant shuffling on their right and an alarmed question. 

“Derek? What’s wrong?”

Stiles had almost forgotten about the curly guy. 

“Something’s here. Don’t you smell it?” 

Smell it? Now, that was just creepy. More so, when Curly immediately sniffed the air. 

“I don’t smell anything weird. Just pack,” the curly guy eventually replied, “maybe if I…” and then his face shifted, too.

Oh my god, Stiles thought, there’s more of them.

“I think I can smell something,” Curly said after another round of sniffing, “but it’s really faint. I wouldn’t notice it if you didn’t tell me. Are you sure, it’s still here?”

Derek drew another breath. “Yeah,” he growled lowly and the muscles of his forearm flexed. 

“Is it dangerous? Should I call others?” 

“I don’t know. Call Deaton.”

Deaton? As in Alan Deaton? As in the town’s vet and Scott’s former boss? Why were they calling him? Stiles felt like he was getting whiplashed and he didn’t like it. What the hell was going on here? 

“He isn’t picking up,” Curly said in unease, trying again, while Stiles having composed himself enough to think clearly, very slowly slid to the left, one step at the time. He barely  
made two when Derek snarled and moved to him again. 

Okay, so no moving. Great. 

“Deaton, hi, it’s Issac. Sorry to bother you, but we have a situation here. There’s something in the loft. Derek smelled it when he came from the preserve.”

Then Curly, whose name was apparently Issac, paused.

“I don’t know, we can’t see it. Derek can smell it though.”

And paused again.

“Yes, but only when I shift and even then it’s too faint.”

As Stiles watched Issac talking on the phone, he realized that he needed to do something or this could end up very badly for him. They knew he was there anyway and even if the chance of them being able to touch him was too small, he wasn’t going to risk it. 

He patted himself down and took out his Reese’s package. He opened it, gave himself a second to mourn the delicious snack and waited.

“I don’t know. Derek has it against the wall.” Issac was just answering another question, still on the phone.

“Ugh, not that I know of?” he looked questionably at Derek and as Hale shook his head hesitantly, he continued. “He didn’t fight back.”

That was Stiles’ cue. 

He took one piece of Reese’s and threw it gently at Issac. It bumped harmlessly on his chest and, as the guy yelped in surprise, fall on the floor. The effect was immediate though. Derek snarled at Stiles and he had to duck once again to save his skinny ass from claws once again. 

“Derek. Derek! Stop! Look!” Issac shouted loudly and pointed at the floor. Derek’s gaze snapped to the innocent piece of delicious snack.

“It threw something at me. It looks like Reese’s.” curly guy said phone still pressed to his ear. 

“OK. After you come back, stop by the loft. OK. Thanks, Deaton.”

Stiles watched nervously as Issac ended the call and then looked at Derek expectantly. When nothing happened he rolled his eyes.

“You heard what Deaton said,” he reminded him. 

Derek shot him a disgruntled look and then slowly took a step back, not crowding Stiles to the wall anymore, and his features shifted back to human. 

He awkwardly cleared his throat. “You’re in Hale’s pack territory.” 

Stiles blinked. Pack territory. He felt a red light blinking insistently in his mind. 

“What are you doing here.” Derek said gruffly more command than a question but he got no answer. 

“What do you want?” he continued.

“Come on dude, you have to ask the right questions,” Stiles encouraged him despite knowing he wasn’t heard.

Derek tried several more questions that Stiles wasn’t able to answer, getting more and more irritated until he was snarling loudly.

“Last chance. Who. Are. You.”

“Derek, maybe they can’t answer,” Issac tried to placate the bigger guy.

“Or don’t want to. And it's a he.”

Stiles, who was at this point frustrated, anxious and not just a little bit creeped out, took his opportunity and quickly threw another piece at Issac, who flinched in surprised again, but gave Derek a smug look. 

“See?”

Hale huffed but he looked thoughtfully for a moment, his thick eyebrows moodily drawn together. Then he asked. 

“What are you? You smell human.”

“Is there any other…,” Stiles began to say but then looked between the two guys, “OK, probably a legit question.” And threw gently another Reese’s, this time at Derek. 

The guy twitched as it hit him in stomach and nodded.

“Does that mean yes?”

Stiles threw another.

“Are you alone?” 

He hesitated but threw another piece. He was alone now but Lydia was coming. And he wasn’t going to put her in danger. However, Derek noticed a long pause between the question and the answer and started growling again which made Stiles once again desperately aware that this probably wasn’t going to end well if he didn’t provide at least some useful information. He shakily reached into his back pocket and flip its content at Derek.

The guy slowly bended down to retrieve his business card from the floor, Issac curiously looking from behind his back. Stiles really hoped they would at least know of him. And he was lucky.

“Oh my god,” Issac breathed, “you’re Ghost? Like, the Ghost?” 

Stiles sheepishly threw Reese’s at him as Derek huffed: “Who?”

“You know, the P.I.? Do you remember when we watched the news about Cavell twin’s case? This was the first time Ghost tipped off the police. He is literally untraceable,” Issac babbled excitedly, “just wait ‘till others hear about it. Erica owes me ten dollars. Knew there was something supernatural about you, although I thought you were werewolf, like us,” he beamed in his direction, unaware Stiles almost choked on his spit.

Werewolves? 

The pack, the territory, the furry faces. It all suddenly made sense. Seems like Derek really was the wolf he was looking for. 

“So, are you here on a case?”

Stiles threw another Reese’s cup while his mind recalibrated to accept the existence of fucking werewolves. Less Xmen, more Supernatural. Got it.

Derek, who had been silent until that moment, interrupted, “does your case concern the pack?” 

He didn’t relax even though there was no flying snack to indicate the positive answer. Stiles wasn’t in Beacon Hills because of them. 

“Did hunters send you?” 

Still nothing. Stiles had a strong feeling that throwing a yes at Derek would in this case mean nothing good. Not that this was a walk in the park. 

“How do I know I can trust you? You may even not be the Ghost for all I know. Make yourself visible,” Derek demanded and folded his hands over his chest. 

Stiles breathed out in defeat. “I can’t,” he said quietly. 

When nothing happened, Derek seemed to grow even tenser. 

“I said, make it so that we can see you and hear you,” he repeated, voice dangerously low and eyes turning red once again. 

“I can’t. I can’t!” Stiles yelled and slid to the floor where he sprawled unceremoniously. “Damn it,” he banged his fist on the floor in pent up frustration.

After that, the loft was silent. It took him a while to notice that and when he looked up, Issac was staring expectantly at Derek, who had his eyebrows scrunched up in what could have very easily been a severe murder face if not for the thoughtful look in his eyes. 

Finally, he seemed to make a decision and squared his broad shoulders.

“You will stay here. I don’t care if you have somewhere else to be, you’re a threat until Deaton comes and convince me otherwise, shouldn’t be more than three days. You will sleep on the couch,” he nodded in its direction, “try something and I will rip your throat out. With my teeth. I don’t care I can’t see you. I will track you down. Understood?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. God, he hated this case already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this chapter took so long. The life got in the way.


	5. Chapter 5

To say that Stiles was uncomfortable in his new accommodation would be understatement of the year.

 

After Derek Hale, apparently self-proclaimed protector of Beacon Hills, decided he didn’t trust someone, he made it known. It would have been almost amusing if not for the fact that now, that particular someone was Stiles himself.

 

After the rocky start, the two furry loft occupants spent the rest of the afternoon prowling around the open area of the loft and in Derek’s case, not so subtly sniffing the air once in a while. Once or twice Issac would begin to ask Stiles a question and every time, without an exception, Derek would glower at the poor guy until he grew silent once again. Stiles didn’t blame him, those eyebrows of doom Derek had going were rather impressive. Well, to be honest, every part of Derek was impressive. The longer he looked at the guy, the more he realized how damn handsome the growly werewolf was.

 

Still, Stiles refused to just idly sit in the armchair drowning in a passive aggressive silence.

 

Screw that. He may as well use the time for research.

 

So he quickly grabbed his things from under the sofa. He was already sitting back in the armchair, laptop on his knees, when Derek growled in discontent, nostrils flaring. Stiles narrowed his eyes and stared at him. It took the werewolf longer to react than it did hours ago.

 

Interesting.

 

But not relevant, Stiles had decided and spent that evening and most of the night researching the shit out of werewolves, trying to ignore Derek’s menacing presence.

 

He cracked the reason why Derek’s response time grew longer the next day.

 

The werewolf felt confident enough to catch a quick shower before returning to the main area half naked, drops of water still sliding down his toned chest and stomach, and immediately headed to the kitchen to make something to eat for himself.

 

Stiles stared unapologetically on the triskele tattoo between Derek’s shoulder blades. He could do it now, stare, and not be afraid he would be find out. One of the perks of his invisibility.

 

Then he got whiff of freshly peeled orange and it clicked in his brain.

 

The werewolf was depending on his nose when it came to Stiles and it was easy in the beginning because Stiles’ scent was a novelty in the loft, it was fresh. That’s why it was so easy for Derek to trace his movement, as easy as following the footprints in the fresh snow would be. But the longer Stiles stayed in the loft, the more tracks of footprints he made and the harder it was to follow them. Derek still smelled him, but the ability to track his movement was becoming harder as Stiles’ scent spread through the loft.

 

At least that was his theory.

 

He was sceptical to consider other information about werewolves he found online trustworthy, but he had no better options.

 

Well, that wasn’t completely true. On the other side of the loft stood a simple wooden cupboard crammed with books. During Stiles’s first look at the loft, he thought that apart from fiction books, Derek was a hardcore fan of mythology.

 

He knew better now.

 

Stiles decided to try borrowing one of the books early in the morning, not feeling any remorse for snooping because the big furry idiot planted himself in front of the entrance door like a guard dog with bad attitude, determined to stay awake the whole night. And that meant Stiles didn’t sleep as well.

 

So as the first morning light shyly creeped through the windows, Stiles decided to test his theory and made his way towards the library. He made sure to make a big berth around Derek and to keep his breathing calm.

 

The books were old, really old. And a good half of them wasn’t even in English. Stiles grabbed two which seemed the most promising and returned to his armchair, the prized possession tacked safely to his chest.

 

Derek didn’t even twitched from his place by the door. 

 

Over the next days Stiles poured over the Bestiaries, as the books he snatched were called. He also checked daily the police reports for anything unusual, binge watched Star Trek once again and called Lydia, somehow successfully pretending nothing was wrong. But that was apparently all he was allowed to do.

 

“Let me through or I swear to god I will eat one of you furry idiots and not in the sexy kind of way,” he yelled when Derek planted himself in front of Stiles, preventing him from entering the kitchen area. Again.

 

He had been in the loft for four days now and was still treated by Derek with crippling suspicion, the werewolf never straying far away from Stiles. And to add to the unfortunate situation, the guy was apparently smarter than he let on. When it became apparent that Stiles could walk freely around the main area almost undetected, Derek began to obsessively air the loft, letting in the fresh air thus tracking Stiles’ movement with less trouble.

 

“I will make something to eat, if you’re hungry. You’ll wait here,” Derek uttered and stepped closer to the fridge.

 

“Seriously? What do you think I’ll do? Stab you with a kitchen knife? You would heal anyway,” Stiles huffed, “you are so infuriating. And speaking of infuriating, where the fuck is Deaton? You said three days max!”

 

He was hungry and he was bored. The worst combination when it came to Stiles. He would be able to eat his weight in curly fries now. And he needed to go out. To run. To scout woods. To grocery shop. Anything to get rid of the excessive energy. He knew he wasn’t alone getting more uneasy and tired with each passing day. Derek seemed even grumpier and the lack of sleep was starting to get even to him. And really, Stiles would pity the guy if not for the fact, that everything he did had been completely unnecessary. Stiles read the books, he was as dangerous as a toddler compared to werewolves.

 

He looked around the loft, knowing he was about to do something very foolish but beyond the point of caring. Issac was in the town’s hospital, attending nurse training program, and therefore weren’t there to entertain him. He grabbed the pillow laying on the sofa, weighed it in his hands thoughtfully, and finally hurled it at Derek’s head.

 

Unfortunately, he didn’t miss.

 

The soft thud was deafening as the whole world seemed to freeze.

 

Derek slowly turned around, eyes shifted to ruby red. The air cracked with tension.

 

He made a step toward Stiles and opened his mouth when the silence was cut with a loud sound of a ringing phone.

 

Derek stopped and reached for his phone, all the while not letting his eyes stray from where he expected Stiles to stand.

 

“Yes,” he bit out instead of greetings. Stiles watched as Derek frowned and held the phone in front of him to look at the callers ID.

 

“Deaton? What is it?”

 

He waited for a beat.

 

“Hang on. I’m coming.”

 

Before Stiles could even blink, the werewolf was already by the front door, car keys in hand. “Come on, move. We have to go,” he growled impatiently and slid the door open, “I am not risking leaving you here alone.”

 

“Wow, I can really feel the love,” Stiles bit out but crossed the loft anyway and squeezed past Derek. At least, he would get to find out who Deaton was.  

 

 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Derek drove like a madman and if Stiles wasn’t too busy holding on and praying they wouldn’t end up in a car crash, he would have admired the Camaro purring under their feet.

 

When they stopped before the veterinary clinic, they were greeted with blood. Blood splattered on the pavement, blood on the walls, blood on the front windows. Stiles didn’t need a supernatural sense of smell to know most of it came from the dead stag that was laying on the ground in front of them. The poor animal was brutally butchered. Head and legs torn off from the rest of the body to create a horrifying circle of bloody remains.

 

Stiles’ hand flew in front of his mouth, trying to block the smell of the raw decaying flesh. If it was overwhelming for him, he didn’t want to know how strong it must have been for Derek. If it was a year ago, Stiles would be puking all over his shoes or worse, fainting. But he saw things as Ghost. And most of them weren’t pretty. That’s why he followed Derek inside the clinic without much fuss.

 

Fuck, he knew this place. Of course, he did. He used to sometimes hang out here when Scott had his shift as an assistant. That meant only one thing. Derek’s mystery Deaton was the same Deaton Stiles knew. How the heck did Scott’s boss, a town’s vet, get to know a werewolves’?

 

The front door to the veterinary clinic was left open but there were no patients, it was Sunday after all. They stopped at the front counter leading to the examination room.

 

“Are you here?” Derek asked and Stiles realized he was talking to him only when he added an urgent “Ghost?”

 

A piece of rubber bounced from Derek’s right shoulder.

 

“If you go behind the counter, you’ll see a line of mountain ash there.”

 

Stiles didn’t need any clarification. He had read about it. If made into a full circle, Mountain ash would prevent any nonhumans from entering the circle. It was used for protection. Or as a trap.

 

When he broke the line he flinched, a humming feeling going from his fingers up his arm and to his chest. He hadn’t got the time to examine it though.

 

Derek was getting restless by this point and shot forward as soon as Stiles threw the rubber at him again. He was gathering the unconscious vet carefully in his arms by the time Stiles entered the room.

 

Deaton was pale, unnaturally so. He had an ugly slash wound on his head and a good part of his white coat was soaked with blood, although it was difficult to guess how much of it was actually his. It seemed he was laying on the floor before they arrived.

 

Derek’s face was a grim mask, lips pressed together into a thin line. He didn’t utter a single word as he stood with the vet cradled to his chest and made his way quickly back to the car. Despite the werewolf’s usual stoic attitude it seemed he was shaken by the state in which they had found Deaton, completely forgetting about the invisible Ghost who he should keep an eye on.

 

Stiles trailed after Derek, almost deadly calm. The existence of supernatural world threw him off balance and he had been reduced to a literal ghost these past four days, haunting the loft and its occupants, almost forgetting why he was in Beacon Hills in the first place.

 

But what he’d just seen? That was a crime scene, a carefully staged one. And whoever was responsible for it, wanted to say something via the violence.

What was the message though?

 

Stiles watched as Derek laid Deaton gently on back seats of his car.

 

He didn’t have any advantages except from his invisibility - no enhanced eyesight or superior sense of smell. And he certainly didn’t think of himself as of a graceful predator. He wasn’t a werewolf.  

 

But he knew how to do this.

 

Because this was his job.

 

And he was fucking good at it. 

 

Taking advantage of Derek’s distracted state, Stiles quickly took his over-shirt off and pushed it under the front seat. It should hold his scent strongly enough to give him some time before Derek’s find out he was not with him.

 

The black Camaro took off with the roaring engine and black marks on the road. Stiles looked as it disappeared behind the corner and turned around to face the bloody scene once again. This was the reason why he was here. He felt it in his bones.

 

Stiles took out his phone because he planned to take photos of everything on the crime scene, no matter how unimportant it seemed, and started towards the animal remains. He took note of how the body was arranged and how exactly the surrounding was covered with blood. Upon a closer examination, he discovered there was a mark carved into the animal’s skin.

 

Stiles felt a shiver run up his arms. He knew that symbol. He’s seen it several times actually.

 

It was not done hastily, every line filled with precision that could be seen in a highly skilled surgeon, which was surprising when taking in the consideration the sloppy way the limbs and the head had been removed.

 

Oh, not every limb though. One of them showed the same surgeon-like craftsmanship as the symbol, cut off with care, cleanly.

 

Stiles moved from the dead stag and circled the clinic, looking for the footprints that the previous scene lacked. There were none. Nothing out of place trace, not even a drop of blood could be seen. Unless you counted the clinic.

 

He moved to the front door and looked at the footprints. Derek’s, his, a one other. Probably Deaton’s as there were three sets of footprints heading inside the building but only two coming back out. Or so Stiles thought.

 

He stepped inside to examine it but he couldn’t find anything that would indicate the presence of someone other than injured Deaton. Stiles looked at the examination table shoved to the side and followed the bloody smudges that Deaton left.

 

He frowned. If there had been any danger, Deaton could have easily hidden in the back room. It didn’t seem he was headed that way though.

 

Now curious, Stiles stepped to the big cupboard, inconspicuous between the two open vitrines filled with medicine. He reached with one hand to open it and flinched when he felt the same hum as when he touched the mountain ash. That didn’t discourage him thought. He took the hold of one handle and pulled.

 

“You sly old fox, you were in a supernatural club all this time!” Stiles whispered in reverence as he stared at the bottles with herbs and other substances and books that looked rather familiar, all aligned neatly in the cupboard. He doubt the books were about dogs’ digestive problems and a quick look inside one of them proved him right. After placing the book back in its place, he wanted to close the cupboard and move on, but he stopped mid-motion and stared at the neat row once again. Then he reached hesitantly to take another book, a thick one that looked exceptionally old.

 

Without questioning his instincts he tucked it under his arm and chanced another look around the room. He had photographic evidence of every nook and crane of this place. There wasn’t much more he could do here. He needed to go back to Derek’s place where his laptop was. And he needed to think.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

Derek marched inside the loft with a deep frown and Stiles’ over-shirt clutched tightly in one hand just as Stiles finished connecting his laptop to the TV. He needed to talk to Derek and and at the same time to show him what he had found but there was no way he would let go of his laptop or phone for Derek to examine. There was too much sensitive information about other cases. And it was the third phone he had to buy this past year. So no, TV screen had to work.

 

The werewolf inhaled and then snarled, “Where were you?”

 

Then he flinched and took a step back as the TV screen lit up with a text document where Stiles wrote:

 

_At the clinic, gathering the evidence. There was no reason for me to go to the hospital with you._

 

Derek’s face went slack in surprise but he put himself together impressively fast. “How can I know what happened to Deaton’s not your fault? What if someone did it, because they wanted to talk to you?”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes but answered anyway, writing quickly.

 

_I don’t work against you. I am not a threat to you or any of your pack. If I wanted to hurt you I would have. I already had a chance, when you weren't able to track me._

 

He wiggled in the armchair to make himself comfortable and watched as Derek hesitantly set down on the sofa, putting himself between Stiles and front door.

 

“Then why haven’t you done this before?” he asked accusingly and waved at the TV screen.

 

_Because I wasn’t sure you were the good guys. Do you blame me? The first reaction you had when we met was to hurt me. And then you treated me as if I wanted to kill you in your sleep, when I had done nothing wrong._

 

Stiles felt angry, insulted really, when he wrote that. Because it got to him, the way they treated him. It almost persuaded Stiles that Derek wasn’t a would-be-victim. He thought the werewolf would be an aggressor in this case. That’s why he poured over the available books when he had the chance. To try to find a way how to stop him. All the other things he learned were a by-product.

 

Derek put his elbows on his thighs, fingers linked loosely together as he stared at them in silence. If Stiles wasn’t looking so closely maybe he wouldn’t notice how the werewolf’s ears grew pink.

 

It was almost…adorable. Stiles blinked in surprise.

 

When Derek spoke up again, his voice was smoother, loosing the ever present growly undertone that Stiles haven’t even noticed had been there until it suddenly wasn’t. 

 

“Then what to you want?”

 

_“What I always want – to catch a bad guy.”_

 

 At that he opened another file, making sure the text document was still visible.

I

t was a photo from the clinic, all the gory details visible.

 

_This is from this morning._

 

Derek nodded wordlessly at that and Stiles switched to the next photo. The scene in it was similar to the one he took today. Too similar.

 

_This one is taken in front of the Beacon Hills’ sign, about three years ago._

 

He switched to another.

 

_And this one is from the remains of Hale’s family house a month later._

 

Stiles chanced another glance at the werewolf. He was still sitting on the sofa but his back was now ramrod straight with his hands curled in fists at his sides. He was almost unnaturally still, looking every ounce the predator he was.

 

“What does it mean?” he asked finally, his voice sounding deceptively flat. 

 

Stiles just pressed “Next” again and wrote.

 

_These? These are messages._

 

He looked at the photo that showed the detail of the triskele carved into each animal.

 

_And they are meant for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves, here's another chapter, hope you'll like it.
> 
> I have to say I am amazed by your support and kind words. It means a lot to me. :)


	6. Chapter 6

The following weeks had been weirdly anticlimactic, filled with reading old books, skimming through police reports, and googling. Stiles had to admit that after his little chat with Derek, the werewolf’s behaviour improved a lot. He was still very reserved towards the invisible ally, but wasn’t restricting his movement only to the loft anymore. He even left Stiles alone with Issac sometimes, a thing he would have never done before.

They still talked via technology when needed. Stiles gave away his phone number but if there was something important to say to both of them, he would still connect to the big screen of the television. He suspected that it was the establishment of the communication channel that helped. One would expect an unknown aggressor to be the factor in Stiles favour when it came to Derek, but the werewolf hadn’t been overly concerned about it. Not enough to contact the rest of the pack anyway.

“No need to unnecessarily bother them. We can handle it on our own.” The werewolf stated when Stiles demanded an explanation why he was so chill about it. 

_How can you be sure when we don’t even know what we’re up against?_

“Trust me. I know.” Derek grunted clearly annoyed by the conversation but Stiles wasn’t going to back down this time.

_How? You couldn’t smell it. You didn’t hear it. It didn’t leave any footprints._

Derek grunted again and refused to answer so Stiles continued.

_The thing is clearly dangerous. Dangerous enough to arrange the scene with a dead animal and blood and gore three times and not be caught. I wouldn’t call calling the rest of your furry friends unnecessary. Aren’t packs supposed to be stronger when they are together?_

At this Derek’s expression smoothed into a blank mask. “I don’t need their help. I am the alpha.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at that _._ It seemed this “I am the alpha” card was used every time it suited Derek.

_In that case I am an abominable snowman. Seriously dude, there is a strength in numbers._

“You don't understand. You’re not pack.” The werewolf said in low voice with a note of finality which made Stiles clench his teeth. Why was he so stuboorn?

_No, I am not. But I am a PI and I have seen some shit. Just call them, for fucks sake._

“PI, my ass. If you weren’t invisible you wouldn’t be able to solve anything. You’re nothing special.” Derek spat viciously and straighten to his impressive height while Stiles stood near the end of the sofa, getting angrier by the moment.

 _Fuck you. You don’t know me._  

He wrote and, to let Derek truly know how angry he was, he took a pillow and threw it at Derek. The werewolf didn’t even twitched.

“Acting like a brat now? Haven’t your parents taught you not to throw a fit?”

He sneered and Stiles froze in the place with shaking hand at his side squeezing the phone. He knew Derek was and asshole and that all of this was probably some kind of fucked up defensive mechanism but god, bringing up Stiles’ parentsinto this left him almost blind with rage and grief. He wasn’t as immature as Derek accused him of being though so he simply turned around and walked out of the loft, not willing to be in a room with that idiot any longer.  

He went for a walk to cool off instead. Roaming the streets of Beacon Hills had never been his favourite thing to do, but now he was glad to do just that. At this point he thought Derek would value his opinion to some degree, but the complete dismissal had him feeling lost. How was he supposed to work with someone like that?  

When he came back, still hesitating what to do about the situation, he found an empty loft and a plate of a deliciously smelling pasta on the kitchen table waiting for him. He eyed it with clear distrust because it looked suspiciously like an extended olive branch. If he didn’t know that Issac had been still in the hospital, working his way to becoming nurse, he wouldn’t even consider Derek as being the one responsible for the meal.

When Stiles’ stomach grumbled, he decided to be a bigger man and sighed dejectedly while sending a quick thanks to the werewolf. His parents did raised him well after all.  Only then he inhaled the pasta in a matter of seconds.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

Stiles still managed to call Lydia almost every day, keeping her up to date without actually revealing the secret of his roommates, thus making it seem like a semi-regular case. If she got a whiff of him meeting mythical creatures, she would be on the next flight to California just to satisfy her scientific curiosity.

Even though she had to postpone her arrival due to an unfortunate event in her family, her grandmother dying, she still pretty much insisted on coming to Beacon Hills, which Stiles slowly began to consider a bad decision.

Deaton wasn’t as badly hurt as they all feared but haven’t woken up yet. Doctors were confused as to why, hesitantly suggesting the head wound as a cause, which was highly logical, but Stiles was at this point very sceptical about almost everything concerning this case.

So no, Stiles didn’t want Lydia to get hurt as well, but at the same time wasn’t suicidal enough to try to prevent her from coming to Beacon Hills. Instead of doing that, he redoubled the effort to find his guy before she was done being patient with her relatives and appeared in Beacon Hills out of nowhere with her designer shoes, fierce attitude and very vulnerable human body. 

It was almost three weeks later and he was almost in the middle of the book he took from the clinic, which was in freaking Greek, and although there were some pretty good tips for rare use of mountain ash and wolfsbane, he didn’t found out anything that would explain the butchered animals with Hale’s pack symbol carved into their skin. Which put Stiles on edge because he couldn’t reach Lydia last time he called her. There was some brutal time difference which is partly why he called in the middle of the night, but he had a suspicion she was on her way to the town. Otherwise she would have picked it up. She always picked up the phone.

He groaned, frustrated beyond belief, when suddenly a plate with two ham and cheese sandwiches landed on the coffee table in front of him.

“You should eat,” Derek grumbled and set on the other side of the sofa, folding his hands into his lap. He pointedly looked away and Stiles almost knocked the book to the ground in his hurry to reach the plate. That was another thing, living with the two werewolves for so long made him reveal some of the quirks of his state. Stiles groaned again, he hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until that moment. He took a huge bite and quickly sent a thank you to Derek.  He watched as the werewolf took out his phone and nodded in recognition.

“Any progress?” He asked.

Stiles replied while munching on the sandwich.

 _None_.

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed when he read the message.

“You keep insisting the animals were a message but what if it’s a normal intimidating technique or a feeding ritual?”

_What do you mean FEEDING RITUAL?!? No, on second thought, forget it. I don’t want to know. Anyway, if that WAS an intimidating technique why arranging the limbs exactly the same way every single time? Dead animal itself would be intimidating enough. And there wasn’t any meat missing for it to be a feeding ritual. I’m telling you, it means something else._

“Some creatures don’t feed on meet. They could eat on life essence.” The werewolf retorted stubbornly and Stiles shivered minutely. He had apparently still a lot to learn about supernaturals.

 _True. But if that was the case, why choosing such specific locations? Always somewhere easy to find, in plain sight. And at least two of the location have a direct connection with you. Police haven’t realized it yet, but the deputies know somethings going to shit. Why else insisting on the_ curfew _?_

The werewolf hummed noncommittally but was otherwise quiet which wasn’t unusual as Stiles discovered over the time he spent living with him. At first glance Derek didn’t seem to be much of a talker and usually did feel comfortable with one word answers or a hum, but sometimes, when he though no one was looking, there was this raw lost expression on his face, that didn’t sit quite well with Stiles. 

That was another thing. Stiles was looking at Derek quite a lot. He looked at Derek when he turned into a gruff mother-hen and bullied Issac into eating dinner, thing that never ceased to amaze Stiles. And he looked at Derek when he sometimes curled on the sofa with a book, forgetting Stiles was there.

 Stiles was realistic enough to know it had a potential of becoming quite a problem. He didn’t have time to be crushing on a surly werewolf. And really, how would that even work?

No, he would solve the case and get the fuck out of this town. Maybe he would go to Europe after that, he deserved a little holiday.

He heard Italy was lovely this time of a year.

Derek interrupted his inner thoughts as he cleared his throat.

“There’s going to be a full moon next week.” The Alpha stated meaningfully in his general direction.

Stiles slowly lowered the plate back on the coffee table and thought about the implications of the simple sentence. According to what he read the legends about werewolves got a few aspects of lycanthropy right.

The thing about a full moon was partly true. Werewolves were much more active during the time and moon cycle in general held a significant place in their biorhythm. Full moon was a time to socialize, to celebrate. Packs got together to hunt or run together, which was supposed to strengthen bonds between pack members.

It was also a time when werewolves were both at their strongest and most vulnerable. If they couldn’t control their more animalistic side, they would usually surrender to their basic instincts and could become feral.

Stiles picked up a phone from his lap and send Derek a single question mark, which made a werewolf exhale an annoyed huff.

“It would be better if you weren’t here during that time. I can arrange a room in a motel for you if you want.”

_Why?_

 Stiles would be genuinely surprised if it was a matter of control. Apart from their first meeting, Derek’s control seemed perfect, almost unhealthy so. 

“Because you’re not pack.” Derek admitted, eyeing the sofa in clear suspicion. And really, what was this guy’s problem?

_And that means I can’t be here when you have your furry howl-at-the-moon club meeting? Why do I feel discriminated all of the sudden? Is it a revenge for kids being mean to Lupin, Padfoot?_

Stiles couldn’t help but snark in his next message, but if he thought it would elicit a laugh out of the werewolf, he would be sorely mistaken.

After reading it Derek’s frown deepened until his eyebrows created a unified front above his eyes.

“Are you always this annoying?”

_Are you always this bad at explaining things?_

Stiles retorted and the werewolf let out a growl but it sounded more annoyed than threatening. Yeah, Stiles could talk werewolf pretty well now. Considering Derek tended to communicate mainly via growling and eyebrows’ movement it became a necessity.

“Are you really trying to tell me you don’t know.” The werewolf asked, a note of incredulity in his voice, and crossed his arms over his chest, making his biceps bulge. That distracted Stiles a little bit but he still managed to reply with a curt: _Yes_.

Derek stared at his phone for a long time and then cleared his throat again looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Full moon makes us more territorial, which is why we tend to go for a run. We patrol our territory at the same time. But it’s not possible this month. If you’re right and that thing is after me, I can’t let it catch us unprepared. You’ll be safe, if you stay out of Beacon Hills for a night. But it’s not…” now he seemed to struggle to find the right words. “I and Issac will not be at our most peaceful not being able to run of the energy and I am not willing to risk anyone getting hurt. We heal, you don’t”

Stiles hummed in an answer despite knowing Derek won’t be able to hear him. He actually really appreciated the thought.

With a small smile, he looked down at his phone.

_Duly noted, thank you._

And then, because he wanted to show some good faith.

_I will stay away. But for a record you wouldn’t be able to hurt me anyway, at least not with a direct contact._

At Derek’s questioning look, Stiles explained.

_No one is able to touch me. I thought it was obvious._

The werewolf slowly shook his head with a bewildered expression and Stiles wanted to know if it was because it was so unimaginable for a naturally tactile werewolf.

 _OK, let me show you. I will try to touch your shoulder. You tell me if you feel something_.

Stiles scooted closer to Derek and reached with his hand to pat his right shoulder. As expected he felt only a light tingle in his fingertips and after he stayed like that for a moment, he withdraw his hand and asked:

_Felt anything?_

Werewolf looked at his shoulder and shook his head. Then he hesitantly asked. “Is that why you call yourself Ghost? Because you can’t be seen, heard, smelled or touched?”

_Actually I wanted to call myself Invisible Man Deluxe, but I was threatened into Ghost._

 Stiles remembered fondly the argument he had with Lydia not noticing a flare of Derek’s nostrils or the way he minutely narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to ask another question only to be interrupted by Issac entering the main area with a bag slumped over his shoulder.

“Hey Derek. Ghost?” the curly guy greeted smiling brightly when his own phone chimmed with Stiles’s own greeting.

“I thought of going to the hospital a little earlier today so I could check on Deaton. You want to tag along?”

As Derek declined politely Issac’s smile dimmed a little and that was partly the reason why Stiles send his own answer saying that he would go with Issac if they stop for a curly fries on their way there. And when the guy agreed enthusiastically Stiles stood up from the sofa.

_Lead the way, Curly._

 

>>>>>> 

 

Stiles didn’t like hospitals. For some it symbolized the place where people got better, for Stiles it was where people went to die. Sometimes slowly just like his mother, with agonizing pain and no recollection of who they were. Sometimes fast like he hoped his father went, with only a moment between life and death. But the result was the same. A cold body that used to be someone’s loved one under the white sheet.

So no, hospitals were not Stiles’ favourite place which is why he regretted his choice as soon as the intimidating building came to view. Nonetheless, he trailed after Issac, trying not to zone out while the guy excitedly showered him with inside information about the place he worked, phone held by his year to make it look like a regular phone call.

Issac was a clever cookie.

They passed the main hall and took the stairs to Eastern wing that held patients’ rooms. They met only few other visitors, it was still rather quite early after all. A pair of women who clung to each other’s hands, a man with flowers and a spring in his steps and a lone woman with her eyes cast down. As they were passing, she lifted her head and looked casually their way which wasn’t unusual,  strangers stared at each other every day, but something ticked Stiles the wrong way which prompted him to turn around, walking backwards to discover the reason why.

As they crossed the threshold of Deaton’s room, Stiles had a very uncomfortable déjà vu. The vet was looking unnaturally pale under the white light that was typical for every hospital but the wound on his head was healing nicely and it looked like someone was visiting him quite regularly as the get-better cards on his night stand indicated. Stiles took out his phone and asked if Issac knew who was leaving the cards here.

“Deaton’s sister. Never met her while visiting, but nurses say she is here at least once every week.” Issac shrugged while checking Deaton’s pulse. It seemed he had his own routine thought out so Stiles left him to it and quietly observed.   

He was zoning out again, the hospital smells never too good on his nerves when Issac make a confused noise after trying pushing the blanket aside.

“That’s weird.” He mumbled and before Stiles even opened the message app, he pointed on the skin of Deaton’s right ankle. “See this? It’s a needle mark. But he isn’t supposed to get any shots anymore.” 

He reached to the vet’s medical card and Stiles took an opportunity to quickly take a photo of the little red mark. It seemed fresh.

“Nothing here. We should ask Doctor Keith, maybe he has just forgot to write the new treatment down,” Issac suggested even though he didn’t sound convinced.

Stiles knew what crossed both of their minds – someone could be messing with Deaton. But who and why?

He followed the other around the corner and almost ended up on his ass as he lost his balance. “Seriously?” Issac looked around moodily. “If you spill something, you tell someone so it can be cleaned. It could be dangerous, assholes.” He bitched and pated his jean’s pocket. “There’s a supply closet at the end of the hall. I may as well clean it myself when I am already here.”

Stiles watched without much interest as the other looked for his keys and then followed him down the hall. When the door to the closet was opened Issac hesitated on the threshold before stepping in, Stiles only a few steps behind him. The room looked like any other supply closet. Narrow and rather dark, with only a narrow high window to provide a natural light. The shelfs were packed on one side with cleaning supplies, on the other were bandages, towels and clean sheets. To sum it up, the staff could use some tips about organizing. But at the same time, he may take advantage of that.  Maybe he could ask Issac for one or two rolls of bandages. They always came in handy.

He was just about to take his phone out to send the request, when something skittered across the floor followed by a loud bang of the door falling shut. The click of the lock sounded nothing but ominously. “Fuck!” Stiles yelped in surprise and whirled around, phone forgotten in his pocket. He immediately noticed a smoke coming out of the left corner under the shelfs.

It took only two steps to reach the door but when Stiles wanted to try the door handle he couldn’t. His eyes shot up to Issac and paused.

The guy seemed frozen in place with his eyes shining in unnatural electric yellow staring at the closed door. “Ghost? That was you?” He asked with a note of betrayal that made Stiles grind his teeth together and try the door again. He couldn’t reach it, Issac was still staring at it, making a quiet whimpering noises. Before Stiles could move towards him or do anything at all, the guy dipped his head back and let out a loud earthshattering howl, which would be cool if Stiles wasn’t so damn close to the sound.

His ears were still ringing when he realized his breathing didn’t come to him as natural as always and a look to the left told him Issac wasn’t faring much better, even though he didn’t seem to notice that because of his panic.

First thing first, Stiles told himself grabbing two towels, one immediately wrapping around his mouth and nose. Then Stiles stood right in front of Issac, who was now looking at the door through him and tried to somehow do the same for the guy while not touching him, but it was no use.  

“You need to take that towel and stop staring at the door.” He demanded feeling the weight of their situation.

“Issac, I can’t help you if you don’t stop. Look at me.”

He knew it was stupid, Issac couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him, but he was getting desperate. And he now felt an urge to cough, too.

“Come on, damn it. Look at me.” He tried again more loudly.

He needed him to look at him. He had to look at Stiles.

“LOOK AT ME!”

And then Issac did.

His eyes zeroing on Stiles face and if the situation was any different Stiles would be freaking out, because it was the first time in three years someone met his eyes and how was that even possible? But they were still trapped and it was getting harder and harder to breath.

“Ghost?” Issac coughed out looking sweaty and pale. Stiles nodded and pointed at the towel with urgency. Issac grunted as if it took a herculean effort to lift the towel to his face, but he did it anyway. “Don’t look at the door. Look at me.” Stiles managed to rasp and waved his hand in front of Issac’s face again when his eyes strayed to the door again.

The other guy stared at him uncomprehendingly and Stiles realized he still couldn’t hear him. And so he pointed at Issac’s eyes and then to his own chest in a universal sign, tugging the towel away from his face to mouth “Eyes on me.”

That seemed to sink, because Issac finally nodded slowly, golden eyes glued to Stiles’ face.

With that out of the way Stiles turned back to the source of the smoke. He casted a quick look around the closet that told him he had very little to work with. While breathing as shallowly as he could, he reached under the shelf until his fingers grazed something that, after pulling it out, looked like a smoke grenade. He then began to wrap towels around it eyeing the window with grim determination. 

He griped a metal construction and pulled himself up, and did it again. The progress was slow, the weird smoke making him weaker than he would like. When he deemed he was close enough, he reached for the window and prayed it could be opened.

Creak.

Stiles quickly threw the smoking bundle of towels through the window and slumped with relief. His descend was everything but grateful and when his legs touched the ground he staggered.

When he looked up Issac was sitting on the floor, legs folded in an angle that must have been uncomfortable. But he was still following Stiles movements, despite blinking slowly.

Stiles straightened again and turned to the door.

He knew where to land a kick that had the highest probability to open it, he was a Sheriff’s kid after all, and if he wasn’t dizzy and feeling as weak as a fly, he would be able to do it with ease. Now he was not so sure.

Despite that he positioned himself as he practised time and time again and kicked his leg out. He grunted as his sneaker connected with the wood near the lock with a loud noise and although he thought he heard a cracking noise, the door didn’t open. He staggered back a few steps with a hiss almost tripping over his own legs. He shook his head to clear it a bit and moved closer to the door again.

This time the force of the kick make him fall flat on his ass but the sound of the door hitting the other wall made him almost cry in relief.

Stiles took a moment to compose himself and then made his way to Issac. The guy didn’t move an inch but was still breathing so he counted it as a win. He needed to get him out on clean air. Issac followed his movement but seemed generally out of it but somehow managed to smile gratefully at Stiles and hum lowly.

Stiles reached for another towel, planning to just make the other guy lie on it so he could drag him out but was interrupted by loud by oud noise.

 Suddenly Derek was there, red eyes and fangs and all that getup. Even though he was breathing heavily he didn’t stop and entered the closet without hesitation.

“What happened?” he asked Issac but the guy only mumbled something noncomprehensive. 

Stiles had his phone in his hand already when he noticed how frantically Derek patted Issac down for injuries, whimpering quietly, and that made Stiles feel weirdly raw, wanting to reach and comfort the guy. He knew that desperation. The need to make sure your family was ok. And Issac was Derek’s family.

He reached to lay his hand on the Alpha’s shoulder without thinking, wanting to comfort but was interrupted mid-motion.

“What have you done, Ghost?” He growled and Stiles froze in shock.

What?

“What the fuck have you done?”

“What have I done? Are you fucking insane?” Stiles shouted back at him the accusation in the werewolf’s voice rubbing him the wrong way. What was Derek’s fucking problem? His trust issues were out of charts and Stiles wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into him.

He took a step forward to try to do just that, but Derek must have sensed it and that thing, that small step, made him snap. He turned around and with the growl slashed at him with his claws out.

Stiles yelped because he didn’t expected Derek to get aggressive at this point. He flinched back and his back painfully connected with the shelf. By the time he righted himself he was in the closet alone.

Stiles speechlessly stared at the door.

He was done.

He was so fucking done. Stiles was not a pushover for some idiot beefcake to treat him like that.

Making his way out of the room and to the hall he went to hunt an oxygen mask. A little bit of pure oxygen never hurt nobody, he thought and absentmindedly, playing it safe just to be sure.

After that he needed to find the smoke grenade someone use on them. It was evidence after all and could help him further. He lifted his arm to support himself on the stairs only to yelp at how it hurt.

Examining himself he noticed that the sleeve of his over-shirt was torn and turned a suspicious shade of red. He shrugged it carefully off, hissing while doing so, because it stung like a bitch.

After that he stared at his arm dumbfounded. There were four sluggishly bleeding slashes. They weren’t deep but required medical attention. It looked as if Stiles met a big angry cat.

Or a werewolf, he realized and felt himself shiver.

So much for being a deluxe version of the Invisible man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves, another day and another chapter. 
> 
> Once again, thank you for all your comments. I have to admit reading them is now one of my favourite things to do. :) :D


	7. Chapter 7

Media always had a great power, whether they realized it or not. Great power that however didn’t often come with great responsibility. From the first moment a man picked up a pen, a quill, or opened his mouth and thought “people need to know”, he was basically creating a deformed image of a world he lived in.

A world where conflicts were always black and white, a world that was uncomplicated in its implied frivolity and a world where everyone had a clear role, women were soft spoken and shielded by men, always the eager protectors.

Stiles didn’t always hate that particular type of dichotomy. He really wanted to be that tough silent type of a guy who could rescue his girl and kick ass without breaking sweat, just like in the movies. The epiphany came with the puberty, more precisely when he found out he wouldn’t mind if it was a guy he was rescuing, and what’s more when he realized he wouldn’t mind being the one being rescued - either by a girl or a guy.

Still, some things were hard to shake, especially those making him do really dumb decisions without second guessing them. Like the image of Rambo stitching his own arm. The dude’s only reaction was a manly huff that sounded more annoyed than anything else. So it should be a piece of cake, right?

“Ou! Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, shit, shit. Jeesus, motherfucker!”

Stiles certainly wasn’t Rambo.

It wasn’t the first time he needed to tend to his own injuries. The first time he tried to stitch his wound without any local anesthetics, he was still painfully young and dumb and nearly blacked out, his hands shaking uncontrollably from the amount of adrenaline his body was producing and the pain he was feeling. He remembered feeling embarrassed, or more precisely ashamed that he was so soft.

In the end he had left the wound unstitched, and decided to just bandage it, which he now knew hadn’t been the smartest idea. The stitches have their uses and after that particular episode, or more precisely after very a loud lecture he got by his father and then Mellisa McCall, he googled all of them along with the tips how to recognize if wounds needed to be stitched or not.

His current injury wasn’t serious. The slashes were rather shallow and clean, but they were on his arm and he was certain he would reopen them every time he moved the limb. The answer was obvious – stitches.

And so while he held the oxygen mask to his face, just to be sure, he looked around for the local anesthetics, because he certainly learned his lesson and wasn’t so eager to try it again without them. However, even injecting himself with it hurt like a bitch, which was why he was cursing and whimpering, not even trying to stifle the sounds.

The whole procedure took him over an hour because of the weird angle he had to work with and at the end he was covered in sweat and ready to take a break. Which is why he took a bottle of painkillers and slowly dragged himself outside to look for the smoke grenade.

Only to find out it was raining cats now.

He sighed, tired beyond belief.

No rest for the wicked.

After stealing an umbrella from the waiting room he went on his way, holding his injured arm close to his body. The search wasn’t that long. He found the grenade in the bush near the parking lot, clearly out of juice. Stiles left it huddled in the nest of towels while he contemplated his next actions.

Returning to the loft was out of question. The way he and Derek parted wasn’t the most peaceful one and Stiles wasn’t so keen on meeting the werewolves again so soon, especially when he was vulnerable and exhausted.

In the end, he took the bus from the hospital back to the library, staying awake only thanks to his stubbornness. He still had his car parked there and after he put the grenade in the trunk and climbed carefully into the car he proceeded to lower his seat to make himself at least a little bit comfortable.

He just needed a nap.

Not a long one, just an hour or two would suffice.

Yeah, a nap would do him good.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

After waking up and checking his phone, Stiles realized he slept for more than 24 hours. What’s more, there were several unread messages and four missed calls. When Stiles zeroed on the caller’s ID he sighed.

Lydia would be so mad.

He immediately dialled her number and hissed when he lifted his other arm to rub at his eyes. The painkillers wore off and left him uncomfortably sore. The call connected after the second ring but Stiles didn’t manage to get a single word in when Lydia’s agitated voice rang from the microphone.

“I swear to god Stiles if you’re lying somewhere in the ditch bleeding out, I will find you and put you out of your misery.”

Stiles chuckled under his breath and remarked. “Wouldn’t that be kind of pointless if I was dying anyway?”

“Shut up, you nerd.” Lydia retorted bitingly. “Are you all right? Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

A warm feelings spread through his stomach and limbs and Stiles felt as giddy and touched as he always did when Lydia expressed her worry over him. He believed for a long time no one cared about him, especially after Beacon Hills. Stiles ditched his phone and blocked all of his social media accounts as soon as he left and after Parrish sold his house as per his request Stiles deleted his e-mail address as well. He felt lonely and in his self-destructive state of mind he made it so there was no way someone would be able to contact him, only further encouraging the loneliness to take deeper roots.

And here he was now, with a friend who cared about him enough to be angry when he worried her. Stiles counted it as a blessing.

“Would you believe me if I told you I have been sleeping from yesterday’s morning?” He asked and popped a painkiller in his mouth swallowing it dry. His arm hurt like a bitch but he didn’t have time to rest properly.

Crazies and criminals wait for no one.

“Wait, you, an insomniac, slept for 24 hours in one go? Stiles, what the heck is happening there?” Lydia sounded as done with the bullshit as he was.

He sighed and despite his long rest, he felt tired. “It’s a long story.” He warned her.

“Well.” Lydia quipped and Stiles would bet his entire fortune she flipped her hair over her shoulder right then. “You’re lucky I have time. Get your ass to the excuse of a park they have in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles sat ramrod straight and, ignoring the pain in his arm, asked. “You are in Beacon Hills? Since when? Why didn’t you let me know?”

“I tried to call you. Four times,” she deadpanned, “Anyway, I am sitting near the entrance with a small fountain.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there in ten.” Stiles nodded and fished his car keys. It will be faster that way and he would be ok if he took it easy.

The drive was a short one. Stiles still knew Beacon Hills and its shortcuts pretty well. Well enough that he was walking towards the bench Lydia was sitting in less than ten minutes.

She was sipping at her coffee and looked as put together as ever although there was a slight crease between her eyebrows. There was another cup standing next to her and he immediately zeroed on it.

Stiles sat down next to Lydia and cleared his throat. He knew she didn’t like for him to start talking without making some noise first. He startled her more times than he could count. She fished her hands-free out of her bag and tucked it in her year.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah.” He answered her and brought the second cup to his mouth. “Have I told you recently how spectacularly amazing human being you are? Coffee is just the thing I needed.”

She smirked and cocked her head to the side. “No, I think you still have a room for improvement.” Then she sobered up. “Stiles, what the hell is going on? Don’t think I hadn’t noticed how weird you’ve been acting recently.”

Stiles sighed and prepared to be yelled at. “Lyds, I think we are so out of our depth here, it’s not even funny. And I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well,” Lydia made herself more comfortable on the bench, “start from the most general facts, we’ll work our way to the details.”

Stiles played with the plastic edge of his cup and thought for a moment of carefully easing Lydia into the supernatural world but the glove treatment would only agitated her more. The straightforward approach it was then.

“In that case, what do you think about werewolves?”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

After he finished his admittedly exhausting explanation Lydia grew quiet, absentmindedly playing with a lock of her hair. Stiles let her process new information at her own pace meanwhile taking a sip of his now cold coffee.

“So one could see you and the other one touch you.” The redhead reassured herself and Stiles hummed in agreement. “Was it a one-time thing, or is it irreversible?”

Stiles wasn’t surprised by the question. His own mind was full of the possible scenarios of how it was even possible and how it would affect him. “Honestly? I have no idea, it has never happened before.” He admitted and after a second added. “But I would rather work with the premise that I am not as invisible to them as I used to be. Just to prevent any ugly surprises.”

“Agreed. And the injuries?”

“Four slashes, not too deep but I needed to stitch them.” Stiles played with the hem of his shirt and after a hesitant pause added. “I am not sure Derek meant to hurt me, though. He could have been operating under the impression that he wasn’t able to touch me and simply didn’t want me to be in his way.”

“Would it change anything? If he meant to hurt you or not?”

“Of course, it wouldn’t,” Stiles admitted, “he left me in a possibly very dangerous situation without even ensuring I was ok. And let’s not talk about the trust issues. We are supposed to be fucking partners in this case. It’s…” he huffed, “It’s really frustrating, that’s all. Except of you, those two are the first people I have communicated with ever since I got stuck with this fucked up curse. I suppose I just forgot how infuriating people could be.”

He leaned on the bench and let his head hang back in order to stare at the sky through the green leaves of the trees.

“People will always be too smart for their own good and too ignorant for the good of others, Stiles. If they don’t see your value as an ally, their problem, but you shouldn’t let it affect you to the point where you can get hurt again.” Lydia answers after a while, carefully measuring her words.

“Wise words, Master Yoda.”

“That green lizard has nothing on me.” Lydia quipped with an amused smirk.

At that Stiles squawked indignantly. “For the last time, Lydia Martin, Master Yoda is not a fucking lizard!”

Lydia cackled at that and after his poor attempt in pouting, he joined in. After that they settled into a comfortable silence and Stiles dropped his face towards sun again with his eyes closed. He enjoyed the easy camaridace and a precious moment of peace realizing how much he was stressed out this past month and not only because of the case.

The silence was interrupted when Lydia suddenly asked. “So, this Derek, what does he look like again?”  

“Apart from unfairly attractive? Tall, broad, muscular with dark hair, light eyes, and stubble.” Stiles answered without a thought. When Lydia didn’t answer he opened his eyes and looked at her only to realize her eyes were glued somewhere to his right.

When he followed her gaze he unconsciously cradled his injured arm closer to his body. He didn’t know what Derek was doing in the park, but wasn’t in the mood to find out.

Stiles watched as the werewolf strolled through the park in a deceptively relaxed pace and realized that he was coming from the same direction Stiles did some time ago.  

He was tracking him.

“Lyds, I need you to get up and walk away.” He told the redhead with a tone not allowing any arguments.

But this was Lydia fucking Martin so off course it didn’t work.

“Nah, I think I am good.” She replied almost politely, still staring at Derek who now began to make his way to their bench with a determined expression of his face.

“Lydia, I’m no joking. I told you just seconds ago how my last encounter with the Big and Broody ended!” Stiles tried to remind her and nervously measured the distance between the wolf and the petite redhead.

“Oh, I remember. Believe me, I remember that very well.” She replied sweetly and Stiles shuddered. Lydia could be alarmingly terrifying for such a short woman but that didn’t change the fact that she was a squishy human and didn’t stand a chance against a werewolf.

“And apart from that. There are many people around. I don’t think I am in any danger.” She added after the while, suddenly interested in inspecting her nails.

Stiles expected Derek to say something once he got to the bench but he just stood there and stared intensely at the place where Stiles was sitting, making him truly uncomfortable. When it became obvious the werewolf wouldn’t be the one to begin the conversation, Lydia cleared her throat and with her most annoyed expression quipped.

“This bench is taken and I am already spoken for.”

Derek’s expressive eyebrows rose in confusion. “What?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “I am flattered, but not interested. And for the record? The staring thing is really creepy. You know, next time? Try to actually talk to the girl you like and not stare at her like a weirdo.”

Derek froze. “I didn’t want to talk to you.” He cringed probably realizing how rude he sounded.

“And that’s the problem. Plus I have a phone call now, not an ideal...”

“You don’t have a phone call.”

Lydia gasped.  “Are you stalking me?”

Stiles watched with a morbid fascination as one fierce Lydia Martin proceeded to reduce one of the most dangerous predator alive into a stammering mess.

“No.” the werewolf griped clearly very uncomfortable. “I am waiting for someone here. He should message me any minute now.” And then he looked meaningfully at the other side of the bench.

When he looked at Lydia again he found her entire demeanor changed as she was now measuring him with a cold calculating gaze.

“You sound really confident for someone who messed up. Yesterday’s incident wasn’t his fault.” Lydia drawled, clearly enjoying Derek’s startled face.

However, the werewolf got himself together impressively quickly.  “I know. But I just…” Derek stammered and then turned towards Stiles scowl already back on his face. “Issac saw blood and…”

“And what? And you wanted to make sure you accidently didn’t kill the only ally you had because you spectacularly misread the situation?” Lydia interrupted innocently and Stiles cringed in sympathy. She was vicious and Derek stiffened even further his face smoothing into a blank look.  

“Let’s try again, what do you want?”

“I…found another dead animal. This time near the hospital. I thought you should know.” After that he seemed to hesitate for a moment but then nodded to himself and turned to leave without another word.

“Wait! Lydia, ask him if the cops were already at the scene and if he by any chance took photos of it.” Stiles urged her frantically before Derek could stalk away. Lydia huffed but he could see she was interested as well. “Hey, wait! Ghost wants to know if you got any photos of the scene and if the cops already got to the scene.”

The werewolf turned back to them and hesitantly fished out his phone. “I took few photos. I could send it to Ghost, if he wants. And as for the scene, the body wasn’t left in front of the main entrance so there was no one there when I left but the place isn’t exactly deserted,” Derek replied while his eyes darted between Lydia and the place where Stiles was sitting.

“Could you tell him to send them to me and that we’ll meet at the loft? I’ll go look anyway, but another perspective couldn’t hurt.” Stiles asked.

Lydia narrowed her eyes at that. “You can’t be serious.” She hissed and Stiles was guilty of enjoying the way Derek seemed to startle at that. But then he turned to his friend and sobered up.

“Actually, serious is my middle name. Look. This case revolves around Derek and his pack too much to solve it without them. And my cover is already blown, so why add to the drama?”

She didn’t reply but was instead sizing Derek up with a clear distaste. At last she stated.

“Send him the photos. We’ll meet you at your place in an hour or two. We need to take care of some things.”

Despite the vague answer, Derek looked almost relieved before he reigned his emotions in and fiddled with his phone. As Stiles’ own phone chimed with an incoming message, the Alpha nodded at them again and walked away.

 

>>>>>>>>>> 

 

Stiles almost vibrated with the anticipation while Lydia began to skim through the mix of his and Derek’s photos. The werewolf was right, by the time Stiles got to the crime scene, the deputies were already there. He was lucky they were still gathering their own clues and hadn’t covered the display yet.

“You know, that is really disgusting.” Lydia noted conversationally dissecting the scene with the scientific curiosity.

“One of the legs is missing. Not a coincidence. And I checked the previous bodies and discovered something very interesting.” Stiles stated put his seatbelt back on.

“Do tell, it sounds like you already have a theory.” Lydia shot a quick look at him as she started the car and exited the carpark.

“I may have one, but I need to ask Derek and Issac few questions to be sure. Turn left on the next stop. I need to borrow some magical stuff from Deaton’s clinic.”

“Magical stuff?” Lydia asked never taking her eyes of the road but still managing to make Stiles feel judged.

“Hey, magic could be real! I am at the point of my life where everything is possible. Like werewolves and magic and aliens and Trump not being a dick for a change.” Stiles stated but not even a beat later amended, “Okay, maybe not the Trump’s bit, but you get the gist of it.”

When they arrived to the clinic, Lydia insisted on going with Stiles and so he found himself carrying back to the car not only the things he needed but also couple of books that peeked Lydia’s interest.

Once safely on the road again, Lydia’s curiosity won and she asked why he needed Mountain Ash and water from the source of nearby river. “Part of the mystery of the dead animals is the fact that werewolves aren’t able to pick a scent. And it shouldn’t be possible, yeah I come as close to untraceable as one could but Derek still can pick my scent!” Stiles explained as he carefully mixed the two ingredients together creating an innocently looking murky water. “What’s more, what happened yesterday? Issac should have been able to see them coming, especially with the grenade. And once realizing that, it got me curious if the kind of scent masker against werewolves was possible. I actually came across this method while reading one of Deaton’s book.”

With that Stiles started rubbing the mountain ash water on his pulse points and other strategic places on his body.

“You know,” Lydia started after a while, “If it works, it could be used to prevent Derek to track you again.”

“True.” Stiles nodded and as the redhead hummed thoughtfully he settled back into his seat.  The rest of the drive to the loft was quiet, but the silence was comfortable, both of them lost in their heads although each of them for different reasons. When Lydia parked the car she stayed seated. “I don’t like you have to stay with them.” She admitted somberly.

“You know I have to, Lyds. But I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“You shouldn’t trust them. Not after yesterday.”

“I don’t.” Stiles answered without hesitation, because he wasn’t that foolish.

“Good.” Lydia agreed fiercely and finally hopped out of the car.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

 

Ever the well-behaved daughter from upper middle class, Lydia waited patiently in front of the loft after she knocked on the door. However, that didn’t mean she was reigning her inner bitch when it came to home decor.

When Derek slid the door open she greeted him with a gravely sounding. “This place needs to be renovated, immediately.”

The Alpha ignored her comment and with a telling inhale looked around with a narrowed eyes. “Where is Ghost?”

“Oh my god.” Stile breathed and took a step closer to the werewolf. “Oh my god, it’s really working, Lyds! Yes!” he fist-bumbed to the sound of Lydia’s chuckle. When she answered the werewolf, she still sounded mildly amused. “He’s right next to me. Are you going to invite us in so he can explain?”

Derek looked admittedly suspicious. “Why can’t I smell him?” he asked still barricading the entrance with his body.

“Inside.” Lydia stressed and Derek caved in the end, making room for Lydia to walk past him and holding the door open long enough for Stiles slip in as well.

Once inside he made his way to his notebook still hidden under the sofa but whirled around after a shocked gasp that was followed by excited “Ghost?” rang through the open space of the loft. When Stiles looked at the source of the gasp, he found himself staring into Issac’s widened blue eyes.

“Well, that answers that.” Stiles scratched at his neck feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. It was one thing to be working with the possibility your secret superpower wasn’t so super anymore, but it was something completely different when the possibility became reality. How does one react to it, really?

Stiles’ broke the eye contact and waved awkwardly at Issac who still wasn’t taking his eyes of him. 

“Wow, I thought you would be…” Issac seemed at a loss for words but as Stiles’ eyebrows rose in reluctant amusement he hurried to finish his sentence. “…older. I thought you would be older.”   

Derek who joined them looked at Issac curiously and followed his line of vision. Then he asked. “How is it even possible?”

Stiles shrugged and cleared his throat.

“He doesn’t know.” Issac commented helpfully with the air of an overexcited puppy.

“So he could be visible all this time but chose not to?” Derek asked although his words lacked the usual animosity.

Weird.

“Lyds? Would you like to take on this one, please? I need to get my notebook powered up.”

“No, this is somewhat new for him as well.” The redhead asserted. “Now, if you would be so kind and move your attention to the more pressing issues we would be very much grateful.”

Stiles snickered but schooled his expression once he realized Issac was still looking at him, expression wide open.

When they all gathered around the big TV screen Stiles connected his notebook to, he opened an empty document.

_All right, I may have some new info but need you to confirm some of it._

“Does it have anything to do with your lack of scent?” Derek asked immediately from where he was hovering nearby.

_Partly, yes. I need to ask you some questions._

Stiles didn’t wait for the werewolves’ reaction and continued reading what he was writing out loud for Lydia’s sake. He knew it was probably awkward for her.

_Is Issac your Second?_

“No.” Derek answered without hesitation surprising Stiles a bit.

_OK, what was Deaton’s role in your pack? Emissary?_

“Wait, what does it mean? To be an Emissary?” Lydia interrupted and the look Derek casted her way was unreadable.

“Emissary is an adviser of the pack. They are a vital part of the pack because apart from other things they connect werewolves to their humanity. Although that is very general explanation, every pack has its own rules and that applies for Emissaries as well.” Issac explained and after a moment asked Lydia shyly. “Is it your first time meeting werewolves?”

“We didn’t know anything about supernatural world before meeting you.” Lydia shrugged.

Derek seemed to perk up at that. “We?”

“Me and Ghost.”

Stiles watched the Alpha’s face go slack in surprise and couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Derek could look unfairly adorable when wasn’t pulling the eyebrows of doom.

“All right, all right, Lyds, tell him to answer the question.” He interrupted and Derek shook his head as Lydia forwarded the message.

“He was my mother’s emissary, not mine. Although we would go to him if we needed information.”

_So Deaton is just a dude who has all the good stuff?_

“He’s a druid.” Issac corrected Stiles with an eye-roll.

 _“_ Okay, okay. _”_ Stiles felt giddy, his instincts telling him he was getting to something.

_But he is still vital for your pack, right?_

“I wouldn’t say vital, but he is important.” Issac nodded and Stiles wanted to do another fist-bump. “No offense but…how is Deaton being important to the pack helping?” Beta asked, voice confused.

 _Well_ , Stiles wrote with a smirk, _it helped me confirm that the one who is behind the dead animals, is actually taunting you, or more precisely, Derek. They are trying to provoke you._

“What?” Derek barked with a scowl. “I mean, how can you be so sure?”

_To tell the truth, I wasn’t, but the probability is pretty high. Look at this._

Stiles looked up the photos of the crime scenes and showed the ones taken three years ago.

_I have to admit I was so wrapped up in the idea of supernatural world that I missed little important details. We have five dead animals, two of them from three years ago. And those are whole, no parts missing._

Then he showed them the one from Deaton’s clinic and closed in on the head of the stag.

 _But this one, this one is missing the eyes._  

“You think it is intentional?” Lydia sounded doubtful. “Could have been the birds.”

_That’s what I thought as well BUT it was raining all day and night yesterday, right? And birds usually don’t fly in rain._

He waited to the nods and then opened the photo Derek took several hours ago.

_BAM_

“The eyes are missing as well. And one of its leg.” Derek murmured his expression thoughtful. “But why?”

“Because of Deaton.” Lydia had a smile of someone who knew more than let on.

_Now look at it this way. The stag represents your pack. That’s why there’s a symbol carved into its body. The alpha is the head, it leads. The missing eyes are all about Deaton – he provides advice when needed, just as eyes provide visual cues. When Deaton was out of the way, someone left message that said the culprit took the pack’s eyes. And this morning? This morning the pack lost one of its legs, one of the pillars it depends on, Issac._

Derek stared at the screen unblinking. “But Issac is all right. He just slept through the afternoon and felt tired in the evening.” He frowned.

 _They may not know Issac is all right. They probably didn’t stay long enough to check. Thought the gas would do its job._ Stiles speculated.

“Wait.” Lydia interrupted and zeroed at Issac with surprising intensity. “Do you normally get tired easily? Is that why you slept through the day?”

“No” the curly werewolf admitted. “Werewolves have great stamina. We thought it was the gas but weren’t sure.”

“Ghost slept through the whole day and night and he is insomniac.” Lydia stated firmly. “It is the gass.”

“Wait, even if the theory was right, how does it help us? We still don’t know what they want from me or the pack.” Derek interrupted uncharacteristically hesitant and Stiles’ fingers were typed as quickly as he could.

_I know it sounds strange but this really fits some of the patterns of serial killer behaviour. Organized, staged, the taunting of police or whoever the message is for, feeling of superiority, probably male._

Derek’s pursed his lips but nodded.

_And as for the usefulness of the info. Only someone who knows the hierarchy of your pack could leave such clues. Someone who knows about Deaton and Issac._

“We don’t have many allies outside the pack.” Derek admitted uncomfortably. “And I trust the ones we have with my life.” 

Stiles drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully chewing his lower lip.

_Hey, is Deaton being a druid a family thing?_

Lydia blinked. “Of course.” She mumbled to herself and Stiles knows she was following his train of thoughts, although both werewolves adopted a rather confused look, so he tried in another way.

_What about Deaton’s sister? Could she be a druid as well?_

The silence that dropped on the loft was earthshattering.

“Yes.” Derek traded a look with Issac and then added. “I think, she is.”

_I would certainly explain certain things. Like the lack of scent on the scenes and in the hospital when Issac got attacked. I tried this trick I read about in Deaton’s book about masking any scents. Any druid would know about it. Let’s see._

It took him only few minutes before the screen lit up with the photo of Deaton’s sister, Marin Morrell.

“No way.” Stiles laughed unbelievingly.

“What?” Lydia barked curious and demanding at the same time.

_I know that woman._

Stiles wrote. 

_I saw her yesterday in the hospital._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves,   
>  damn, I know I am late with the chapter but better late than never, right? At least I hope so. :)


	8. Chapter 8

The only sound in the car was the rhythmic purr of the engine, the loaded silence that was wrapping itself around the passengers threatened to smother them. Stiles was gazing out of the window and pointedly ignored covert looks Derek was shooting his way every once in a while.

He suspected the werewolf was quite uncomfortable as he still wasn’t able to catch a whiff of Stiles’ scent. And if Stiles had any say in a matter, it would stay like that. His invisibility was getting too faulty for his comfort. It was rather ironic that the same curse that had haunted him for three years served him as a safety blanket.   

After Stiles suggested paying Deaton’s sister a visit to try to garther information, werewolves immediately protested of him doing so alone, much to Stiles’ annoyance. The heated discussion that followed led obviously to nowhere. Stiles dismissed the mere possibility of him not going. He had the most experience with this kind of situation after all and still had a pretty solid advantage of being a master in not being seen, although the ability wasn’t exactly learned.

Lydia wasn’t so keen to letting the werewolves tag along with Stiles, subtly hinting on the yesterday’s incident. Stiles had to admit it made kind of sense for her to come with him. She wasn’t Morrell’s target and at the same time could hear Stiles which would help so much with coordinating the search. On the other hand, even a thought of her being in danger caused Stiles a mild freak out although he hid it rather well from the others. Or maybe not considering the knowing look Issac gave him.  

Derek remained his frowny growly self and uttered a single sentence, saying he was going.  And Issac looked just as distressed and worried over Derek as Stiles felt about Lydia. In the end, the compromise had to be made and that’s why the two most suitable for the job ended up in the car together, much to Stiles’ obvious lack of excitement.

They parked few streets from Morrell’s house and when they neared the place, Derek mumbled. “I can’t hear anything. If she’s home, she’s heavily warded.”

_Shouldn’t she be in the school anyway? She works there as a counselor._

Derek hummed agreeably and scanned the empty street. They weren’t even in Beacon Hills anymore as Morrell lived next town. That granted Derek a fragile amount of anonymity, although neither one of them seemed so inclined to be any less careful despite that. “I’ll try for the back door. Will you be able to get inside alone?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. It wasn’t as if he had never broken in someone’s house before. However, Derek sounded rather worried so he prevented himself from replying sarcastically. Instead, he shot Derek a simple: _yes_.

The plan was easy. Neither Derek nor Stiles had problem moving undetected by regular humans. And even if she was a druid, the werewolf assured the PI, she still won’t notice him.

Stiles was quite sceptical, to be completely honest.

_I’ll see you inside._

With Derek’s nod as an answer, Stiles simply marched to the front door and tried if it was locked. He felt a shiver run up his arm when it opened for him and he slipped inside, but brushed it away as his nerves.

At first glance, the house seemed quite cosy, full of furniture with carved ornaments in the wood. Stiles noticed the organized chaos that ruled the place and not for the first time missed his old bedroom. He inched closer to the big bookcase dominating the living room when he heard muffled voices from upstairs. His heart began to pound.

What if Morrel stayed at home today? What if Derek got caught?

His phone vibrated against his thigh as he climbed the stairs quickly, but he paid no attention to it when he found the door to one of the rooms upstairs open.

Marin Morell looked exactly like the picture he found in the database. Unlike yesterday when Stiles saw her in the hospital, her hair was swept in low ponytail and she sported a tense look that probably meant nothing good. She was sitting on the bed surrounded by half-empty suitcases. Stiles took a step closer intending to cross the threshold only to blink in surprise when something invisible was preventing him from doing so. God, he was tired of an invisible barriers. Would it kill someone to make them a little bit more colourful? Like in sci-fi?  

Morrell’s head snapped to the side and Stiles would swear on his parents’ graves their eyes met. Then she casually shook her head and looked back at the other person in the room.

“Are you going to kill me, Decaulion?”

Stiles frowned in confusion and backed to the wall to have his back covered. He didn’t notice another person in the room. When he heard the answer, a cold shiver run through him, making the hair on his neck stand.

“Now, now, darling, why would I possibly do that?”

It wasn’t the content of that question that had Stiles’ hackles up. There was something sinister in the way a deep smooth voice drawled the question in a posh British accent, more amused than anything. Somewhere around there was a joke about British villains.

Figures.  

He searched the room again and spotted a man standing near the window. He was tall, lean and dressed like Stiles imagined a proper English gentleman would be. What surprised him however was the cane in his hand, and dark glasses he was wearing. He couldn’t reconciled the air of danger that oozed from the man and the possibility of him being bling. Was it a ploy or was the man, Decaulion, truly blind?

“We both know I failed. And you don’t tolerate failures.” Morrell replied evenly but tensed when Decaulion let out a low chuckle and leaned casually on the cane.

“True.” He admitted. “But I can make an exception for you. After all, this wouldn’t be possible without you.”

Morrell carefully exhaled and then bowed her head. “Thank you.”

The man hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, yes. At the end of the day this could be the final nudge for the Hale to call the rest of the pack home. We could take care of all of them. But it would be for the best if you removed the betas out of the way permanently.”

On the bed, Morrell looked taken aback.

“But the plan...”

“The plan changed.” Decaulion interrupted her and waved his hand dismissively. “Betas are expendable, I can make more of them whenever I feel like it. But I can’t have the Hale’s pups running around when I need the Alpha as weak as possible now, can I?” He finished in condescending tone of voice.

“I know, but simply putting them in coma would weaken him enough to...”

“I decide when he is weak enough.” The man, werewolf, Stiles realized, growled and his eyes shone red even through the dark lenses of his glasses. 

Stiles stood rooted to the spot and blinked. This didn’t look good.   

“Alpha,” Morrel began calmly, “I know you want to win, but killing Hale’s betas is not the way to do it. Hale would go feral with all the bonds disappearing. You know how painful it is for Alpha to lose his own betas. You lost yours.”

Decaulion quietly played with the end of his cane for a while, mouth curled into a knowing smirk.

“I will be honest with you, my precious emissary. Yes, my betas are dead. True.” The werewolf nodded. “But the power I felt after they died, it was the most delicious addictive pain I have ever felt.”

Stiles didn’t understand the implication of what Decaulion admitted but one look at Morrell’s horrified face told him it was nothing good.

She slowly stood up and faced the werewolf head on. “You lied to me.”

“I did what I had to do. Hale pack is weak.” The werewolf snapped.

“I can’t let you kill all of them. They are too weak to protect the territory but murdering the whole pack would destroyed the smallest hint of balance that had prevailed in Beacon Hills.”

Decaulion snickered at that. “You druids and your balance. Haven’t you said to me just few weeks back that sometimes sacrifices have to be made for greater good?”

Morrell widened her stance. “I think you twisted that to fit your needs.”

The werewolf shot her an indulgent smile. “Do you really want to do that, darling? You’re not the only choice for an emissary anymore. I have noticed the new smell around the pack’s den, I think he can replace you just fine.”   

Stiles shuddered. Did that mean what he thought it meant? Before he could even realize what was about to happen, Morrell opened her nightstand and tossed an unidentifiable vial at Decaulion who evaded it with a low chuckle. The playful front was just that, a front, because between one breath and another he had Morrell pressed to the wall by her neck.

“What a pity,” he sighed.

And then snapped Morrel’s neck with a decisive movement.

Stiles stood frozen at the spot. “Oh my god,” he choked out, horrified as he watched Decaulion toss Morrell to the side as if she was nothing but a rag doll and then smooth his hands along his jacket.

Stiles scrambled out of the way when Decaulion walked past him and presumably out of the house. Ears ringing, he stood still until he was sure he was alone and then inched slowly to Morrell’s bedroom. This time, there was no barrier to stop him. He crouched next to the body to look closer.

And it was.

The body.

He couldn’t help her anymore.  

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as he stared at the empty look of the dead eyes. Stiles saw his fair share of corpses in the past. Came with the job description, really, but it didn’t mean it got any easier.

He took a step back, turned away from Morrell and inhaled deeply with his hands shaking. No way was he going to have a panic attack in the crime scene.  

Inhale. Exhale.

Repeat.

Once. Twice.

Good.

He left the room and sat on the stairs to give himself a minute to sort through the things he knew now and the things he needed to do.

He absentmindedly run his hand through his hair and realized his phone was still recording. After saving the video, he noticed he had a message from Derek on the phone.

**_Couldn’t get inside. Break the mountain ash barrier._ **

“Damn it,” Stiles swore and quickly typed back.

_Where are you?_

Decaulion was a werewolf, which meant he could sniff Derek out. If Derek was close, that is. And god knows how it would end if the two met right now as Decaulion had a clear advantage. It was a relief when Stiles’ phone received a message saying the werewolf was still waiting nearby and asking him again to break the mountain ash barrier.

_I can’t. And don’t wait in front of the house. Morrell is dead, it would look suspicious._

Stiles hummed and after a second added: _NOT MY FAULT_.

Yeah, he already had one werewolf souvenir. Their hospitality sucked.

The reply was almost immediate.

**_You all right?_ **

Stiles blinked.

_Yeah, I’ll meet you by the car. There still may be important info laying around here somewhere._

With that he pocketed his phone and looked around. So, what did he know?

There’s another alpha werewolf in Beacon Hills who wanted Derek as weak as possible. Maybe it was a good thing the rest of the pack wasn’t there with them. Morell was his emissary. She was helping him, probably made the mountain ash water for him, because he just couldn’t picture Morell being the one chopping the poor animals like an innovative butcher with mama issues. Which meant it was Decaulion who was leaving Derek bloody presents all over the Beacon Hills. However, Morell was the one who ambushed Issac and him in the hospital. That was for sure.

Stiles stepped back in the bedroom, took out his phone and started to snoop around. Morrell seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Clothes thrown messily in the suitcases with some books. He raked through them to make sure there wasn’t something important hidden under and then huffed when he came empty handed.

He looked around and searched the room thoroughly to look for anything out of place. He found nothing.

Stiles then continued his crusade for clues with a determination of a stubborn mull. Not that it helped him much. He now knew many things about Morell. He knew she was a big fan of Margaret Atwood. He knew she didn’t cook much. He knew her closet lacked bright colours, limiting itself with the shades of grey and black. But nothing of that hinted at her supernatural side job.

Can emissary even be a side job?

After almost two hours with no result at all and with Derek’s increasingly impatient messages he had to admit this led to nowhere. Maybe she had her magical thingies at school, hiding them in plain sight just like Deaton. He huffed and moved to the door.

He opened them, feeling a familiar tingle and bowed his head to look at the floor.

 At the mountain ash line, he realized, and his brain lit up with the intensity of supernova.

There was a mountain ash line at every entrance so the werewolves couldn’t get in.

Decaulion was a werewolf.

And he got in and out of the house without a problem.

How?

Stiles doubt werewolves could apparate or turn into a flying chiwawa so there had to be another exit!

Stiles whooped and slammed the door behind him. He looked at the house differently now.

“If I wanted a secret exit, where would I put it?” He murmured and crossed the room to the big library sliding his hands on the wood and books.

Nothing.

Not so cliché then.

He proceed to stomp around. What if it was under the floor?

Stiles was in the kitchen when the sound of his feet hitting the floor changed. He got rid of the rug.

“Bingo.”

>>>>>>>> 

When he got to the car, Derek was circling it like an agitated lion. Or a wolf if one wanted to be precise.

He had to admit he took his sweet time in the cellar room under the kitchen. It was connected to a tunnel! A fucking tunnel! Turned out Morell liked to keep her books and herbs in one place. Stiles just had to take the books that seemed to be used most recently.

He carefully put the high stack of books he was carrying on the trunk of the Camaro and took out his phone.

_I am here. Can you open the car? I need to put the books in the trunk. Then we have to get out of here. I tipped the police about the murder._

Derek ripped his phone from his pocket and then shot his eyes towards the trunk letting out a low frustrated growl. Stiles knew the werewolf was on edge. It probably wasn’t a usual occurrence, him waiting on the side lines.

_Just get us a few more streets away from the house, ok? After that I will tell you what happened._

Stiles tried to compromise. Derek huffed in grudging agreement and opened his car only to slip inside and turning away so he was facing away from the other door.

When they were far enough from Morell’s house, Stiles started to relax, his muscles unlocking as he sank further into his seat. He needed a shower, badly. And maybe a painkiller or two. With all the distractions gone, he was beginning to feel it again. When he chanced a look at Derek he found him tense with white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

He took a rather unfrequented road that led towards the preserve and stopped the car at the side of the road, close enough to the hiking trails to not to look suspicious. Then he took out his phone once again and looked at it expectantly.

“Stubborn ass,” Stiles grumbled.

  _I’ll take it chronologically. Don’t interrupt me until I’m finished, it’s pain in the ass to type something this long on phone._

Derek rolled his eyes but nodded and really waited until the end of Stiles’ explanation. After that he stared at the phone with adorably scrunched up eyebrows.

“Are you sure the Alpha didn’t know you were there?”

_Yep. I don’t think I would be here if he did. He was creepy, dude. But I am still scentless to the werewolves. What I want to know is if he could caught YOUR scent._

Derek seemed to weight his answer and then asked.  “Where did the tunnel lead?”

_To the woods behind the house. Actually, several hundred meters from the house. I wouldn’t want to be the poor bastard who had to dig it up._

“In that case. The direction of wind, the distance…” the werewolf shrugged, “I don’t think he was able to smell me. Or if he did, only very faintly.”

Small mercies. The advantage of knowing who was after them would be lost otherwise.

_Do you know him? The other werewolf…because all of this seems too personal to be a random pick._

 “I don’t know him personally,” Derek admitted, “but my mother knew an alpha called Decaulion. I think his last name started with an E.”

_And what was the relationship between them?_

“Allies. I don’t remember much but they tried to negotiate with hunters.” Derek’s face closed off, becoming an unmovable marble and the hand that wasn’t holding a phone curled into the fist. It was understandably a sore spot that Stiles had no intention prodding.

  _It’s ok. I’ll find him._

The werewolf nodded even if his jaw was still clenched so much Stiles was wondering if werewolves healing factor applied on teeth as well.

“I can make some calls too, ask our allies what they know about him.” Derek offered hesitantly.

_Yeah, dude, that would be awesome. I mean, Deaton might know something as well so we’ll ask him when he wakes up._

“What?”

_Yeah… well… Morrell was talking about putting your betas in coma. Deaton should have woken up weeks ago according to his doctor. Why didn’t he? And then Issac found that needle mark on him. I mean… it’s pretty obvious that Morrell was keeping him under. We’ll just have to make sure he is safe until then._

Stiles let himself feel smug as he watched Derek’s face went slack with realization. Hell yeah! Take that! He knew it was childish but he felt a vindictive pleasure every time he showed Derek he actually was an amazing PI! Stiles still remembered the poisonous words the werewolf threw his way when they had an argument.

 

**_„PI, my ass. If you weren’t invisible you wouldn’t be able to solve anything. You’re nothing special.“_ **

 

He flailed at his seat attempting to do a victorious dance even if it was immature. But to his ever present bad luck he miscalculated the distance between him and the werewolf when he did a wild move with his uninjured arm. It wouldn’t have been a problem yesterday. His hand would simply bounced against the invisible barrier that kept him isolated from human touch. Today however…

Stiles was almost amused by the way Derek jumped like a spooked cat in his seat when the back of his hand smacked werewolf’s leather clad shoulder. Almost.

He plastered himself to the door of Camaro in an instinctive need to be as far from the startled predator of Derek’s calibre as possible. The werewolf’s head snapped to the side from where he was staring at his phone and his eyebrows did this little confused dip that Stiles learned to recognize this past months.

“What…What was it?” He asked slowly and narrowed his eyes. Stiles panicked.

_What? What happened? Did you smell anything?_

“No.” Derek’s scowl turned more contemplating than really angry. “Something hit me on the shoulder.”

_Weird. I didn’t see anything. Maybe we should go back to the loft. Tell the others what happened._

Derek hummed noncommittally but didn’t move, staring thoughtfully at the other seat. His hands twitched in Stiles’ direction as if he was about to reach out.

_Seriously Derek, let’s go!_

The vibration of his phone seemed to shake Derek from his reverie. He cleared his throat and put his hands back on the steering wheel.

“Right, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fist-bumps
> 
> Hell yeah!! Late is better than never, right?! I can't even tell you how much I struggled with this one, be it due to my other responsibilities or hitting a point where I was so unsatisfied with how the chapter looked...but I did it. I hope you'll like it!
> 
> Anyway, more Derek-and-Stiles' scenes in the next chapter! :)


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles groaned and let the spray of hot water drop on his bent neck, the pressure massaging stiff muscles there. There was ton of things to be done but they could wait for a few hours. What he needed right now was long shower and some time off, just to think things through.

He made a beeline for the shower stall as soon as they were finished discussing what had happened at Morell’s house. Stiles showed them the video after he downloaded it to his laptop and the sound of the bones being snapped echoed in the loft with a grim finality. Lydia looked understandably horrified even though she tried to hide it and Derek growled when Decaulion proclaimed his intention to kill the betas. Isaac looked at Stiles with wide eyes and asked: “What do we do now?”

And wasn’t that a million dollar question.

Stiles scrubbed himself thoroughly being careful not to let his injured arm wet. And if he was a little bit rougher than usual, well, there was no one to notice except him. As if getting squeaky clean would erased a memory of Morell’s empty eyes staring at him from her slack face. As if his mind already hadn’t added her eyes to the other ones he had seen. As if he wasn’t going to get nightmares about them.

Lydia knew he needed a break. That’s why it was her who tagged along with Isaac to hospital. They needed to line Deaton’s room with mountain ash and Isaac had a shift anyway. Stiles told him to try somehow to get to the main desk or any other job where there were lots of people around. Lydia would meanwhile stay with Deaton in case Decaulion had another human allies. Stiles suggested for her to take a book so there was something she would entertain herself with. And a gun. She requested a bestiary that Stiles found the most useful for someone who had no prior knowledge of supernatural. Derek grumbled a bit but eventually allowed her to take it.

It was weird, Stiles thought as he shut of the water and reached for a towel. Derek seemed weirdly subdued today. He still grumbled and growled, but it lost the threatening edge it had before. Well, it had probably something to do with today’s uncomfortable talk with Lydia. She had that effect on people.

He put on clea0000n clothes hissing when the movements pulled at the stitches. The painkillers wore off some time ago leaving him sore and hurting. He mentally made a note to take some again and left the steamy confines of the bathroom.

He dragged himself to the sofa and flopped on it with a satisfied sigh. Car wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep in. He noticed Derek sitting in the armchair near the sofa, clearly invested in the book he was reading. When Stiles zeroed on it he realized it was one of the Morell’s books.

He left him to it and closed his eyes.

“About yesterday…”

Stiles blinked slowly and turn to his side to look at Derek. The werewolf stared at his hands, book forgotten on the side.

Stiles rolled his eyes and sent a single question mark. “You need to use your words, dude.” He noted to noone and closed his eyes again.

“You were hurt.”

Stiles snorted at that.

_No shit, Sherlock._

As he watched Derek’s face fall, he wondered why he was opening the subject right then. He thought it was an unspoken rule to ignore what happened in order to move past it. Stiles was on board with that.

“How bad is it?”

Stiles hesitated. He didn’t feel comfortable disclosing the fact, that he needed stitches and his arm was hurting like a bitch. That he was vulnerable.

_It’s okay. No need to fret._

“How bad is it?!” Derek frowned and lifted his eyes to stare at sofa accusingly.

_You just scratched me a bit, almost like an angry cat. I am fine._

“You’re lying! You wouldn’t be in pain otherwise.” Derek growled, agitated and closed his hands in fists.

Stiles slowly pulled himself up in sitting position. He wasn’t sure it was the best idea to be laying next to the werewolf.

_Why do you care, dude? Just let it be._

“I can’t!”

 _Why_?

“Because you’re hurting and I…” Derek exploded but then seemed to reign himself in quickly and growled. “I wanted to apologize.”

The amount of surprise Stiles felt probably wasn’t very fair to the werewolf but Stiles hadn’t pegged Derek as a guy who was capable of apologising verbally. Yes, he would leave delicious meals as an indirect apologize but saying the words?

“Ghost?”

When Stiles zoned in again, Derek was sitting at the edge of the armchair, the expression painfully hesitant and uncharacteristically vulnerable. And Jesus, what a roller coaster ride it was with this guy.

Stiles exhaled and slumped against the sofa. “Jesus, sourwolf, seriously? It’s like you can’t decide if you want to be a dick or not.”

He didn’t type that, though.

_I needed stitches, but I really am fine now. You can drop it._

His thump hovered over the send button for a moment before sending next message.

_But do that again and I’ll find a way to repay the favour._

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to try to threaten the werewolf but damn it, it needed to be said.

Derek read the messages and scowled unhappily. “I won’t do that again.” He stated quietly and Stiles was left staring at the other man.

_Dude, seriously, what’s with the kicked puppy routine? I have to admit I am getting a little bit whiplashed with the sudden change of the attitude._

When Derek didn’t reply, staring stubbornly at his hands, Stiles huffed.

_Fine, whatever, man._

He laid down on the sofa again annoyed he couldn’t just storm in another room. He slept in the main area and because of Derek’s presence it was hard to relax. He let out a frustrated sigh and unconsciously clenched his hands only to hiss in pain. 

He caught a movement from the corner of his eyes and instinctively threw himself to the side of the sofa, away from Derek. When he looked up the werewolf was frozen with his arm reaching out. Wide eyes following Stiles’ trail until they were trained at him again.

Ignoring the burn in his arm, Stiles typed a furious:

_What the fuck, dude?!_

Derek slowly lowered his stretched arm to his lap again and unlocked his phone screen.

“I can help with the pain.”

If Stiles wasn’t freaking out, he would demand just how supernatural Derek’s sense of smell was.

_The fuck you can. Back off._

He sent even though Derek was making no move towards him, sitting meekly in the armchair.

“I can, werewolves can take pain, it’s in the books. You’ve read about it.”

_You can’t touch me._

“I’m not stupid,” Derek frowned. “To hurt you I would have to be able to touch you. And today in the car, it was you, wasn’t it?”

Stiles had really hoped the werewolf didn’t put it together. He felt uncomfortably vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to anymore. He was supposed to be literally untouchable.

“I made mistakes. And I… it wasn’t fair to you,” Derek interrupted his inner struggle. He was sitting slightly straighter, shoulders angled back. “But want to help. Please.” He added and Stiles wondered how Derek managed to sound so earnest when he was speaking through clenched teeth.

He studied Derek for a minute and then sighed. He was going soft. Lydia would kill him if she found out.

_Ok_

Derek perked up when he read the message and eyed the sofa like a personal challenge. At last, he scooped the armchair so its side was pressed to the sofa and with a slow controlled movement put his hand on the side of the sofa palm up. And it was then Stiles realized he was going to touch Derek. 

He was deliberately going to touch someone for the first time in three years.

Three fucking years.

People didn’t usually realize how dependent their psychological health was on touch. Even the non-huggers cave to an occasional clap on shoulder or brush of hands. Stiles took care of it with ridiculously long hot showers that simulated warmth of other human but sometimes even that didn’t help.

Suddenly, Stiles was pathetically grateful Derek didn’t try to sit with him on the sofa. Just the idea of their hands touching left Stiles with knots in his stomach. God, he become even more awkward and pathetic than he was in high school. 

Only Derek’s impatient huff cut through the whirl of his thoughts. Stiles slowly scooted back to the werewolf and hesitantly reached out. His palm hovered for a moment until Stiles let his fingers graze the skin of Derek’s hand.

The werewolf flinched and Stiles couldn’t help but to do the same.

“Sorry,” Derek muttered but didn’t move otherwise.

“God, this is stupid,” Stiles griped and with a surge of determination let his hand slip in Derek’s bigger one.

 He instantly became hyperaware of that point of contact. Derek’s hands was warm and surprisingly smooth. Stiles would bet the supernatural healing helped with callouses that he was sure Derek would otherwise be sporting.

He didn’t notice black lines starting to travel up Derek’s arm, the indication he was taking Stiles’ pain, nor that his own hand shook minutely until the werewolf squeezed it gently and asked.

“You ok?”

Stiles shook his head to clear it and unlocked his phone.

_Yeah, dude._

When Derek cocked one doubting eyebrow, he huffed and added.

_Just you know, a little overwhelmed._

The werewolf’s confusion lasted only a second until his face cleared with a surprised understanding.

“Oh.”

_Yeah, oh._

Stiles sent and huffed a laugh and when he looked up, the corners of Derek’s mouth twitched like he tried not to smile.

“Shut up,” werewolf grumbled, picked up his book and with his other hand still holding Stiles’ trembling one, he proceed to continue reading.

Stiles leaned back with a sigh and closed his eyes once again. Damn, but it felt good. The absence of pain. Even the knotted muscles on his back started to relax.

He probably dozed off a bit and when he came to, Derek was rubbing absentmindedly circles on his wrist.  

“You up?”

Stiles scrunched up his face and looked at his phone, it was a little bit over an hour.

_How did you know?_

Derek squeezed his wrist tellingly. “Your heartbeat. It changes.”

 _Creeper_.

“Werewolf.” Derek corrected with a smirk.

Stiles snorted and rubbed at his eyes.

“Are you going to mask your scent again?”

“Huh?” Stiles asked and let his hand drop to the sofa only to see Derek scowling. Again. He felt the werewolf’s hand twitch in his and let his eyes fall to it. He was only beginning to type on his phone when he was interrupted again.

“I don’t like it.”

Stiles sent a question mark and watched as Derek got gradually frustrated opening and closing his mount in an attempt to answer. In the end, he settled for:

“I couldn’t smell you. Put me on edge.”

Derek then proceed to look incredibly grumpy.

_Why though? Isaac seemed ok._

And before Derek could open his mouth he added.

_And don’t you dare to use I-am-the-alpha card._

“But it is partly because I am the alpha,” the werewolf said defensively. “Sense of smell is important for werewolves. Isaac is bitten, which means he will never rely on smells as much as I do. I was born werewolf. And when I became alpha my senses got even better.”

He got quiet for a minute, staring thoughtfully at the opposite wall, thumb again rubbing circles on his wrist. Stiles shivered in response.

“So when I got here and smelled an unfamiliar scent, I got overwhelmed.” Derek admitted and Stiles snorted when he caught on what he was talking about.

_So what, you’re trying to maim every unexpected guest?_

“No, but you’re not a regular unexpected guest, are you?” The smirk that made appearance on the werewolf’s face almost instantly fell. “The only think I knew was that someone was in my territory, in my den,” he stressed, “And Isaac wasn’t even aware of that. So I instinctively lashed out.”

Derek paused again but Stiles understood he needed to sort his thoughts. He seemed determined to continue and Stiles realized it was the first time the werewolf opened up a bit. With the handholding thing still going on, Stiles was getting a little bit confused.

 “It was actually your scent that got me to stop.” Derek spoke up again and cringed at the memory, “you were so afraid you reeked of it and then I realized you weren’t fighting back. Still, I thought you were working with hunters but hadn’t any means to verify it. I can’t hear your heartbeat to know if you are lying or telling the truth.”

Which, wow, werewolves could do that? He really wanted to ask about it but somehow knew it wasn’t the right time.

“It never even crossed my mind you had never met werewolves before.”

Stiles snorted and began typing.

_Yeah, you made quite an impression, dude._

Derek made a rumbling sound that came from deep within his chest but didn’t say anything.

_So just for the future reference, any alphas would do the same…? Because then I think I and mountain ash are going to be BFFs._

“No, most of them would not attack you,” Derek admitted and is eyebrows furrowed a bit.

_Then…why?_

Why did you, Stiles meant.

He felt the werewolf go rigid when he read the message and his eyes glazed over in a way Stiles was painfully familiar with. He saw the same look in the mirror whenever he thought about his dad.

Stiles remembered the police report from the night of the fire and suddenly got a feeling it wasn’t the whole story. So he decided to give the other man some slack.

_Because of bad shit…_

Derek’s shoulder relaxed instantly and he flashed a small smile Stiles’ way. “Yeah, because of bad shit.”

_OK._

_Anyway._

_Have you find anything in the book you were reading?_

“No, and this is actually the only book I could touch. I think others are coated in mountain ash.”

_Keep reading, just to be sure. I want to know what they were talking about, what they were planning. What Decaulion is planning. One sick sonofabitch. Killing Isaac and others._

Derek cleared his throat. “About the pack…”

Stiles eyed Derek’s expression and then groaned.

_You didn’t…_

The werewolf nodded looking pained. Stiles knew he couldn’t blame Derek for calling the pack when he wanted him to do so before his encounter with Decaulion.

_Could you tell them to turn back?_

“It’s too late. They wouldn’t even be able to go back when they now know we’re in danger, it’s pack instinct,” Derek admitted and then added as an afterthought, “and they’re too stubborn.”

_Bet they caught it from you. How many are there anyway?_

Derek rolled his eyes before answering. “Six with Isaac.”

_Okay, we’ll just have to be careful. I think it would be for the best to call them, keep them up the date._

Derek nodded and stoop up, gently letting his hand go. “Already done that. Are you hungry?”

Stiles didn’t like to think how cold his hand now was.

 _Starving_.

It was only hours later when he was hacking into Decaulion Emery’s bank account that Stiles realized that the black lines appearing on werewolf’s arm when they drew pain weren’t on Derek’s there after his power nap.

So the whole time they were talking after he woke up, Derek was holding Stiles’ hand just for the sake of…holding his hand?

Stiles was weirded out by how not weirded out he was by that.

“Huh.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is...


End file.
